Hetalia Headcanons
by Professor Owlfeather
Summary: Russian Zombie Dog Experiments? A Drinking Contest between Russia and Germany? America's active visits to the Storage Room? Germany's Scars? My Headcanons, backed up with History. Gerita and Rusame so far.
1. Russia's Puppies

**Chapter 1: _The First HeadCanon_**  
_Russia's Puppies  
_

**Headcanon 1:**

_Russia tends to have nightmares, and it's Lithuania that normally goes to help him. _

**Headcanon 1.5:  
**

_Russia does not keep normal dogs anymore._

**Characters:**

_Russia, Lithuania_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia. Wish I did because then we would have 30 minute episodes am I right

**A/N: **Idk about this. I've been working on this for he past few days or so- and I got into Hetalia about a month ago. I don't expect to get a lot of feedback either, but any at all would be great!

Also, I am going to make chapters for all my headcanons, starting with headcanon one! so expect more chapters or something!

I swear to god, I love RusLiet so much. :)

_**EDIT!**_

This chapter has been rewritten, after taking a long, hard look at it.

* * *

Lithuania's eyes blinked open at the feeling of Russia's cold breath tickling the back of his neck. He resisted the urge to tremble, shifting in the slightest, the bed creaking at his movement.

How many times had he woken up in this situation now? Russia, holding him lovingly, sharing the bed, his cold touch sending shivers down his spine.

Lithuania lost count long ago.

An arm looped under his waist, another petting and running through brown hair, embracing him in the scary-but-strangely-loving way that only Russia possessed. It

Toris tried to wriggle out of his grip, get those cold, masculine hands off him. For someone so warm and hot, Russia's touch and breath sent sensations throughout his body. Such sensations. . . they were _indescribable_. A simple blow from Russia's icey breath, such as the one on his nape, made his blood rush and every fiber of his being excite in a mad dash between terror and comfort. Wherever Russia's frigid hands petted, formed goosebumps in their wake, and sent a thrill that ran in leaps and bounds throughout his body. But still, somehow, such things made Liet feel comfortable.

_But why?_

Russia was a danger and a hazard to the world. Russia could conquer Europe if he wanted to. Russia terrified him, as he should.

But why did _this_ feel so comfortable and safe, if _this_, in reality, made him vulnerable, and at Russia's mercy?

The Salvic's grip around his waist tightened, and pulled the Baltic closer, engulfing the smaller nation in his arms. His back pressed against Russia's oddly warm chest. In that moment, Lithuania shivered for many reasons. From the skin-on-skin contact, from the nation's strangely warm chest, from the chilly breath running down his neck, from the cold hand that rubbed his skin possessively, and from the cold fingers rubbing his scalp, running through his hair. And somehow, still asleep.

_Or maybe half-awake._

Why did Russia always have to be so_ scary?_ Even in his sleep? Most people looked peaceful or cute when they slept! Like Latvia! Or Poland!

Toris forced himself to stop trembling, and he tried to wriggle away again, carefully and slowly. It felt wrong, to try and get away, leave Ivan to wake up in an empty bed, but to find a breakfast cooking downstairs. A part of him wanted to stay, to be wrapped in Ivan's embrace, but the other part, the majority, its message was clear:

_**GET AWAY WHILE YOU CAN THIS IS DANGEROUS CAN'T YOU SEE THAT YOU FOOL**_

But alas, Ivan's embrace only wrapped itself around the Baltic more, trapping him.

A hand moving away from his head, lightly brushing Liet's skin as it traveled down his side, then draping over Liet's chest, and taking its hold.

He gave up trying to get away, praying that Ivan's grip would either loosen or let go of him.  
_I hope Latvia and Estonia are awake. . . Mister Russia gets annoyed if he doesn't find breakfast made when he goes downstairs. _

Toris laid there, Ivan's grasp tight and loving. The Baltic found himself staring at the wall before him, relaxing into Ivan's touch, wide awake. _Again._

_Damn Russia.  
Damn me._

The bed shifted.  
Lithuania let himself go limp, afraid of annoying, and thus angering, the other if he did not comply to his movements. The larger nation adjusted, his nose snuggling itself into the crook of his neck. A large puff of air, like a relaxed sigh, came from the other, and Liet released his breath.

He was so submissive these days, wasn't he? Letting Russia do these kind of things _to_ him and _with_ him.

On one hand- he _almost_ hated waking up in the morning like this. In bed with another man, warm and _cozy-_ No. But then, the thrill and the excitement of it. . . The way his body practically fitted and matched Russia's. . .  
_**No.**_  
_**Stop.**_  
_**This is wrong. You know it is.**_

Then _why_ did this feel so comfy?

It shouldn't be.

He should hate this. He should feel angered and ashamed of himself.

Then why didn't he?

On the other hand, this was better than waking up alone and cold, dreading the day. Lithuania shivered- even if he _did_ protest to this, it wouldn't matter anyway. He knew that. Russia would win, Russia would be more forceful, Russia would be very unhappy, Russia would make him scream, and Russia would leave him, collapsed on the floor, begging for him to stop.

Protesting would _always_ be in vain when it came to Russia.

Lithuania could remember when he first began to live under Russia's roof. He had been unhappy about it. No- unhappy was an understatement. He had defied Ivan's every order, cursed and insulted the larger nation.

And Russia only responded with a grin, and dragged him down into the basement.

Lithuania remembered his state when he came back out a week later. (At least, that's how long Estonia said he was gone.) He, in a manner of speaking, was shaped into the ideal servant for Ivan. The ideal servant being: trembling, stuttering, submissive, and his pride stripped. Liet preferred not to recall what happened down there. The _screaming-_ the _cuts-_ the _crack_ and _whack_ of a whip- the begging of Russia to _**stop-**_ stop, and he would listen and be good and **_never_** think of disobeying him again.  
He recalled being ruptured by writhing agony, almost choking on his own blood. . .  
And all of that pain was like a long period of life. Like he had lived all the time of his real life in pain and torture, and that the time when existence had pleasure was a dream, long gone by.

He shivered.

He used to be so powerful. He used to be a force to be reckoned with!

A powerful empire! The Grand Duchy of Lithuania, and then The Commonwealth.

He had owned so much land in those days! He had so many cultures and races- Poland, The Teutonic Knights, Urkraine, Belarus, even parts of Russia _himself!_

And now, he was. . . _this._ Practically another man's. . . What word would be right? Man Servant? Employee with Benefits? Laborer? Slave? Friend? In an extremely twisted and awkward relationship?

Russia's _bitch?_

No- he couldn't be that. He didn't always awake in Russia's Bed, by force, or when Russia needed to fill his needs.

Sometimes, he came in here out of terror. (But why go to one terror when he escaped from another?)

Or, like last night, _by choice._

Lithuania stilled, holding in his breath, as Russia snuggled him closer, like a child wrapping themselves around their stuffed toy. He relaxed in the embrace.

For example, last night, the three Baltics were woken up by terrible yelling and banging from the other side of the house.

Of course, they all knew who it came from, and why. Russia's nightmares. And, after past experiences of said nightmares, they long since learned that it would be better to have a happy Russia in the morning than a moody, upset, and guilty feeling Russia in the morning.

One of Lithuania's self-appointed jobs being to handle this side of Russia. The side of Russia that Ivan did everything to bury and hide. A side breaking down, that lost too much and seen too much war. The side that Russia rarely let anyone see, his only side that ever _cried._

Lithuania _pitied _this side of his master. This side had a voice. Whether its voice screamed or broke down in sobs, words incoherent or babbling, the meaning behind its words were clear.

_**"I'm a monster! A monster! I don't deserve my existence!"**_

_**"I can't help it! The world has treated me cruelly! People, other nations. . ." **(This was normally followed by some explanation of why he was this way.)  
_

**_"I want help. I want friends. The Baltics are my friends, aren't they? No, they can't be. What kind of friends quake in fear at your presence?" _**

**_"Why can't I get any help? Don't I deserve any? A second chance? Maybe a way to get better? Why do I not deserve this?"_**

**_"Will somebody just please help me! Anyone?!"_**

**_"No. No one is coming to help. They're too afraid."_**

Lithuania wanted to be that help. He couldn't bare to just stand there and do nothing. Anything to quiet that side.

Toris began recalling last night.

-x-x-

The horrifying yelling and loud ruckus, like a small child being murdered, came from the other side of the house.

And so, he got out of bed, exiting the room, leaving an Estonia trying to comfort a startled Latvia.

Toris walked down the hall slowly, a small sigh coming from him. He couldn't let Estonia or Latvia do this- going into Russia's bedroom and calming him down and telling him everything would be okay.

Latvia would say something and only make the Slavic nation more emotional and become violent in the I'm-going-to-murder-you-but-I-love-you violent that Russia possessed.

On top of that, the only thing Latvia could endure was a lot of alcohol- besides that, the smallest Baltic could be a twig that Ivan would throw in the fireplace.

And Estonia?

The lucky bastard had been able to keep off Russia's bad side, and had only felt a scratch of Russia's torture, compared to himself and Latvia. He knew how to not piss Russia off, or even remove himself from the situation entirely.

Again, a lucky bastard.

Despite that, it didn't matter who, everyone would be the same when you lived under the roof of Russia.

_You gave in._

It didn't matter how strong your will was, or how much pride you had, or how powerful you were, or how many nukes you had.

_You are helpless in the face of Russia. You are weak compared to Russia. You gave into Russia._

Said Nation had long since pounded those words into the Baltics.

Prussia had shared that fate. He saw the German every now and then, down in the basement, but otherwise he wanted nothing to do with him. That mad cackling. . .

_What did the Soviets do to East Germany?_

But still- he couldn't let Russia hurt the other Baltics. They would brake. They couldn't endure the same.

Lithuania's hand now rested on the doorknob, sounds between whimpering and yelling clear from inside.

_"Stop- Stop! Don't hurt them- Get away from them! Stop doing that! I'll kill you! I will kill you!"_ A strangled scream came from inside, and Lithuania considered leaving Russia to his nightmares.

_No-_ Drunk and Moody Ivan in the morning must be avoided.

Ensure there is no Drunk and Moody Ivan in the morning.

Drunk and Moody Ivan in the morning would kick a puppy- or Latvia- and not regret it.

With a sigh, Lithuania twisted the knob, entering Russia's bedroom.

The arctic nation laid on his bed, curled up in a small and pathetic ball, blankets and pillows thrown off. Russia being shirtless, trembling and the softest, stifled sobs coming from him.

_He looked so vulnerable, didn't he?_

_"No- no, my puppies, my puppies!"_

How could you hate him when he looked like **_this?_**

Lithuania approached the sleeping Nation, carefully and slowly, until he was in arms reach.

He tapped Russia's shoulder, and jumped back. He didn't react_._

Lithuania approached again, and gave Ivan's body a small push, and a gasp sounded out as the larger nation awoke. He stepped away from the bed, Russia sitting up and looking for whatever awoke him.

Amethyst eyes quickly honed in on him, and Lithuania began trembling. He could see that Russia was making an effort to reestablish his walls- trying not to show any weakness in front of his favorite Baltic.

_"Litva,"_ His trembling turned into shaking as Russia said his pet name. "why did you wake me?"

"You- You were screaming and yelling- s- sir. . . I- I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Hopefully Russia would dismiss him and let him go back to his own room- "Litva, can you come sit with me?"

**_Dammit._**

Lithuania shuffled, sitting down on the bed next to the larger nation. Russia wrapped his arms around him, resting his chin on Lithuania's head, and pressing his arms against his side. Liet shivered, Russia's grip tightening around the Baltic like a teddy bear that he clung onto for life.

And now there would be no escape from Russia.

"Did I ever tell you about the little litter of puppies I got, Litva?"

Oh god- he _hated_ this story.

"Um, no, sir."

_"Say the right word."_ Russia commanded in that sweet but threatening tone.

"No- No- _Master-_ you haven't told me about about the puppies."

Satisfied, Russia started his story.

"They were so adorable and cute. I don't remember how many there were, maybe twenty at least. I remember that when they all jumped on me, I would literally covered in adorable puppies and dogs. They were so cute and soft- so kind and innocent. They were all different puppies too- mangy or fluffy, white or black, multi-colored, and so many different breeds and ages. They all loved me, adored me, and I," He paused, starting to twirl Lithuania's hair between his fingers, trying to comfort himself. "loved them."

The Baltic shivered, feeling Russia kiss his hair once, lightly.

"One day, I came home after I had a visit with a scientist, _Sergi Sergeyevich Brukhonenko,_ and my boss. And all my puppies were gone! All of them! And a few days later, I got a report in from someone, and it told of what happened to my adorable puppies." Lithuania didn't say anything, only letting Ivan touch him and continue his story.

"They killed them. Brukhonenko killed them _all._ My adorable puppies, all dead. They separated their body parts, and the worst part? Some of them, they beheaded. They wired a head to a machine, any they kept it _alive. _For hours and hours. They poked and prodded it- like a lab experiment. And some of them- they cut apart and sewn and attached a tiny dog to an adult dog."  
Lithuania shivered, and Russia stopped playing with his hair. The hand moved down to brush and pet his back, and the Baltic forced himself to cease trembling.  
"Although, on the bright side, if you want to call it that, some of them, they killed in natural way. Hooked valves up to the body's neck- and it was. . . indescribable to watch. I got drunk and wrapped Brukhonenko's neck in my hands- about to kill him, and then. . . " Russia paused, Liet could feel a hand travel away from his hair, and travel down his back then under his shirt, making small, icy circles in his skin. He sucked in a breath.  
"They flipped on machine, and after few minutes, the dog began breathing again, his heart, beating!"  
Russia's grip around his waist tightened, bringing him closer. "They were alive again, actually alive! And after ten days or so, they were up, walking and barking again. Completely normal dogs!" Pause.  
"They wouldn't give them back to me, either. To study on, they said. An excuse." Russia silenced, finished with his story.  
"That is why I don't keep dogs anymore, Litva. They remind me of my puppies. They remind me of what happened to Laika."

"That- That's a lovely story, Master." He just wanted to go back to bed. . .

"Do you think that would work with _humans,_ Litva?"

Lithuania's body shook harder, and he wanted to get away before Ivan tried anything. And by anything, he meant inhumane and downright disgusting.  
He just wanted to go back to his own bed.  
"Litva- could- could you stay with me tonight?"  
And going back to his own bed was not happening.  
"Um- sure- Master. I guess so. . ."  
He could feel Ivan's smile spread across the Russian's face, and Russia threw him back on the bed, on his side and snuggling against him.  
"Perhaps little Litva can prevent nightmares, da? Or I prevent his?"  
That being the last he heard before Ivan threw the covers over them, and made him fall into a fitful sleep against the Russian.

-x-x-

Lithuania blinked, staring at the wall, and he could noticed Ivan's breath suck in deeply. He shivered, Russia's grip loosening.

"Good morning, Litva."

* * *

Alright- what Russia is talking about are the Russian "Zombie Dog" experiments, done in 1939. Look it up, super creepy. And yeah- they would actually cut a smaller dog a behind their forearms, and sew it onto another dog. There's a ten minute video about it on YouTube.

Link: (youtube) /watch?v=KDqh-r8TQgs

um, if anyone has any corrections for me, please let me know! Also, they are speaking russian the whole time, and this chapter took place in the 1950s.

***Edit:***

**What did y'all think of updated chapter?**

**The Next HeadCanon:**

_Russia and Germany are very strong drinkers. They have drinking contests from time to time, and normal you can't tell who wins, with them being even. _


	2. The Drinking Contest

**Chapter 2: **The Second and Third HeadCanons

_Russia and Germany's Drinking Contests_

**_HeadCanons:_**

**HeadCanon Two;**

_Russia and Germany are very strong drinkers. They have drinking contests from time to time, and normal you can't tell who wins, with them being even._

**HeadCanon Three;**

_Germany underwent a small personality change after WW2. (Started drinking more and earlier, Italy was around more to keep him sane, he rarely trusted anyone anymore.) Because of this, he has trust issues, only trusting Italy and his brother._

_And, in turn, Italy began developing a not so happy-go-lucky side to his personality._

**Characters:**

_Russia, Germany, Lithuania, and N. Italy._

_**Disclaimer:**_ I do not own Hetalia.

**A/N:**

I wrote this one on the way home, I hope you guys like it! And I apologize for any OOCness, I haven't exactly figured Germany and Italy's personalities and actions. And in this, you see, one of my headcanons is that Italy does have a serious side. It only shows on rare occasions under certain conditions, though.

And I guess you can say Ivan is a little bit of an asshole in this one. . . like, really mean, I guess you could say.

And, some GerIta.

**Edit:**

**This chapter has been edited, and expect the next two chapters to be updated soon.**

* * *

Liet hated going to these, but he had to anyway. After all, he had to live up to his title as Russia's Lapdog. And, on the unfortunate fate that Russia got completely smashed, _someone_ had to drive him home.

Italy attended for the same reasons, being Germany's puppy (and disciple), as well as the Blond's ride. _(God have mercy on Germany.)_

The Puppy and the Lapdog sat a table beside the bar, watching their respective nation. After laying down their Euros, paying for 20 mugs of beer and 20 bottles of vodka. The Bartender brought Germany various alcohols, and Russia, different vodkas they had in the back. _(The bartender long since grew used to these contests by now.)_

Gulp after gulp of alcohols, until they decided that glasses did them no good. Eventually, Russia drunk straight from the bottle, and Germany downed mugs of beer. Anyone who hadn't already seen one of their contests, felt intimidated and entertained by this, but drinking like this was the norm for the two nations.

By the time Germany had twelve empty mugs, and Russia had 13 empty bottles, Germany starting to ware down, already mumbling, and Russia, Liet decided, was struggling to keep his smile and calm voice.

"You know what- we've done these before- and it's alvays the same." Germany mumbled, setting down another finished mug.

"I always win, da? I makes me wonder why you try." Russia replied sweetly, taking another swig of vodka, and setting it down.

"Because- I _let_ you win." The German shot back, bitterly.

_"What did you say, Germany?"_

Lithuania flinched- he knew Russia heard the German's words, and the Slavic was merely daring Germany to repeat himself.

_"I said,"_ Germany started, his hand grabbing the handle of another glass that the bartender had set down seconds before. He took a gulp of the liquid, before turning to the other nation. "I _**let**_ you win."

_"And vhy is that?"_

Lithuania glanced over to Russia. He could see the slightest bit of anger and disappointment twitch onto the Russian's still smiling face.

"Because, Italy thinks that if you lose, you'll flip your scheiße."

Lithuania leaned back, rooted to the chair, as the air grew stern and danger radiated off Russia.  
It was serious now.  
Russia was going to do everything in his power to prove his dominance of alcohol over Germany.

Russia's gaze went to the Italian, and he in turn, ran behind Lithuiana, shaking, fear running into his voice. "Nononono! Not my idea, Germany is drunk, si? Germany says many crazy things when he drunk! Ha ha ha. . ."

Russia's gaze flipped back to Germany, and his grin widened. "If that is case," the large nation slid his bottle of Smirnoff over in front of the blond, and slid Germany's beer to himself. "Then we change tables, da? You Germans can't handle my drink, so I heard. Or you may like it, since one of ingredients is potatoes."

Germany stopped pouring the vodka into a used mug, setting it down with a _clank. _Blue eyes now stared at the Russian. "Is that a _ficken_ stereotype?"

"Da."

Germany obviously seemed annoyed and his next words were laced with contempt. "Hope you can handle _Eisbock_. The alcohol content is," Germany paused, as if struggling to think, rubbing his temples, and set his hand back down. "I don't remember."

"_Doitsu. . ._"

Liet's eyes flashed over to Italy, who had decided to poke his head out from behind the him.

"You told me it had at least nine to thirteen percent. Stronger than some of my wines! And that one time you got drunk and couldn't hold down my wine, you were-"

"What he said." Germany mumbled, gesturing to the Italian, and shushing him at the same time.

"All the more exciting." Russia said back simply, taking the mug and lifting it to his lips, taking a few gulps before setting it back down. By the way Russia's breath exasperated, and he stuck out his tongue, Lithuania could tell he didn't fancy the taste of German Beer. "You still haven't taken your shot of Smirnoff. If you can finish a whole bottle, we can bring out the real alcohol, da?"

"What do you mean _can_, Russland? _Ich werede es zu beenden!"_

Without another second of hesitation, Germany took his mug, gulping it down. Then grabbing the still half-full bottle of Smirnoff. Italy backed away and went to his seat across from the Baltic, watching the two men from the table. As Germany proceeded to chug down the remains of the vodka, Italy grew more and more worried with each gulp.

"Hey Italy," Lithuania began, already feeling uneasy himself, as Russia started to gulp the Eisbock. He desperately hoped Russia wouldn't get absolutely drunk tonight, because Drunk Russia posed a threat and a danger to everyone around him. Drunk Russia could be described as temperamental, violent, dominate, and he prayed Russia had forgotten his pipe at home.

Although, Drunk Russia could be funny time to time.

(_"America thinks he is sooo special! He talks about how it was sooo bad for him when Britain owned him! You know what I think of that? Child's play! He had it easy! When I was going up, I was bombarded with invasions! You know what else? Growing up, my only friend was a yak! Least people wanted him around!")_

"Ve?"

"What's Germany like, when he's drunk?"

"Oh, Doitsu? Well. . ." Italy touched his chin in thought, a small smile appearing on the Italian's features. "_Drunk_ Germany is very different from _Sober_ Germany!" Liet quickly noted how the Italian referred to it as two different people. "Drunk Germany is very talkative. It makes me wish I knew German, because Drunk Germany doesn't know how to speak English,so it's all confusing and we can't talk to eachother. And normally- Drunk Germany starts sounding like he's mad and throws fits for about twenty minutes, and I leave the room. Because Sober Germany doesn't want anything to happen to me!"

Liet noticed that Italy spoke of it as a routine, and like he had done it many times. "And after that, I go back in to check on him, but I don't go in if he's still mad. If he isn't- he starts getting all sad, and starts hugging me and petting my hair- and he sounds a lot like he's confessing and being sad over things. One of the things I like about Drunk Germany is that he's more open and_ touchy-feely_."

Liet raised an eyebrow. "When you're saying the touchy-feely, do you mean _that_, or. . . ?"

"Hm?" Italy's head cocked in confusion, but then straightened up in understanding. "Oh, _oh,_ nononono, not like that. That's why I don't go near Drunk Germany when he's mad. He just is really huggy and cuddly and clinging like a cute kitty cat!" The Italian paused, smiling. "And I never know what he's saying, but he always says one sentence every time he gets drunk, and I wish I knew what it meant."

Liet felt as if there was something he wasn't saying, but he decided to ignore it. "What does he say?"

"Umm, I might be saying this wrong, he says, 'Ich liebe dich.'"

While Liet's German tended to be a little rusty, he knew what _that_ meant. Before he could translate and tell Italy, the Italian had continued his story. "And then he just does that for a while, and he ends up falling asleep like that. With me in his arms, and all. It's so cute- I wish Sober Germany would do that."

"Why do you say that?" Liet questioned, putting an elbow on the table, and holding up his head in his palm. Italy opened his mouth, about to answer, until interrupted by an angered German yell.

_"But I drank it all!"_

Germany had finished the once half-full bottle, only for Russia set down another bottle in front of the German.

"Tsk, Tsk, Germany. Or would you prefer Doitsu?" Both Germany and Italy flinched at this, the Italian emitting a small whimper, while the German grew stern, and pointing a finger at the Russian. _"You. Russla__nd. _May not call me that."

"Ya budu nazyvat' vas, chto mne nravitsya, vy pedik." Russia replied in a smug tone. Liet's eyes widened, as the Salvic continued, switching back into English. "You drank the half left in the bottle. I said drink a _full_ bottle. Drink half of this, and I drink your Eisbock, and we can go get the _real_ alcohol."

Leit shivered.

Turning their attention away from them again, Italy answered him. "Sober Germany is more closed in and confined. He rarely smiles anymore- you know, _actually_ smile." The Italian paused, glancing at the German, trying to take in half a bottle of vodka, then back at Liet. "After World War Two, he really wasn't the same. So ashamed of himself and he so tormented and confused. . . Germany's home became very scary in the first few months after the war. I wanted more than anything to take him back to my place, eat, sleep, and go to bed, all smiles and happy. But Germany, he insisted that he stayed and helped out, despite how much it hurt him. His people were crying and scared, so Sober Germany was the same way."

"So why did you stick beside him? I mean- what kinda things were so scary over there?"

"I stuck beside him because I _care_ about him." The words struck the Baltic, almost surprised. Italy, cared about Germany? Like, best friends?  
Or, _something else?_  
"And well, some of the scary things, like, the Berlin Zoo had been bombed. all the animals would be dead. Either from bombings or from the fact they couldn't escape, and they would starve to death. I remember, seeing giraffes and elephants and horses, dead and sad looking. And like the buildings? They were washing bricks and passing them down in a line, trying to rebuild. Sometimes," Italy began to frown. "They would walk into homes, and the entire family would be dead. All dead from suicide. A lot of people thought death would be better than what was happening."

Italy's kind gaze rested on the Baltic, and Liet could tell the Italian wanted to avoid speaking anymore of the touchy subject. "So, what is Drunk Russia like, Lithuania?"

"Drunk Russia? Well-" Liet, mouth parted, about to tell how Ivan was a moody and violent when he drunk, until he _felt_ the kind and violet eyes of Russia land on him. Toris didn't even have to look back at the larger nation to confirm it, he just knew Russia's gaze was on him.

Well he couldn't tell the truth _now_, could he?

"Russia- Russia is actually a very calm drunk. I mean- when he is with the intoxication, you can hardly tell. He acts like he normally does."

He felt Russia's gaze turn away, and Liet hoped he had said the right thing.

"You say he act almost as he normally does, do you mean he's really drunk all the time?"

The gaze locked upon h him again. "W- Well, no, of course not. Russia isn't always drunk. . . I mean- it's not like he's a scary drunk- he acts so when he. . ." No no no! Those were the wrong words! Russia was

going to get him now! Oh- uh- "R- Russia is a very kind person, once you get to know him."

Thankfully, any further questions were stopped as Germany set down a half empty bottle with a knock on the wood of the bar.

"I'm barely impressed, Germany. You know- I had a drinking contest with Gilbert once. And I have to say, I'm ashamed. He is a stronger drinker than you, apparently. He was able to down at least a case of Vodka, and not sway." Russia clapped his hands together, gaze landing on his lapdog again. "Litva, go and get the Swedish Vodka out of the car, da?" Lithuania didn't hesitate, and went out to get the strongest Vodka Russia owned. He came back minutes later, setting the Swedish bottle between the two men. He, about to go back and sit next to Italy, but stopped dead in his tracks as a clumsy and icey hand gripped his shoulder. "Litva. I did not say you could go back and sit. Look at me." Liet did and about face, his eyes on the larger nation, and trembling.

He wanted to put some distance between himself and the two drunks.

"This is the strongest vodka I own, Sweden sent it to me for my birthday. It's called _Voditxka Cannabis._ It's alcohol content is over eighty percent. Now, Germaniya, what did you bring?"

_"Cocoroco."_

Russia laughed at the German's response, "Oh, come on Germaniya. The only person who has _that_ is Denmark."

Germany grumbled, and his next words, barely audible to Liet's ears, made Italy straighten up and look at Germany uncertainly. Even Russia's eyebrows twitched in the slightest curiousity.

"Germany, you can't be serious- I mean- last time you tried that, you started-"

"_Shut up_, Italy." The Italian shuffled, and Liet expected that the German started morphing into the 'Drunk Germany' Italy talked about.

"What beer is he talking about?" Liet asked, his gaze directing to Italy.

"Snake Venom."

Liet now took a turn to look at Germany uncertainly. The beer, widely known for being the World's Strongest Beer, with a 67.5% alcohol level. It even made some of Russia's favored Vodkas cower in fear.

"I doubt you can handle it, Russland." Germany said, an ambitious and almost clouded look in his eye.

Germany, daring the Russian, trying to get an upper hand, trying to _win_.

"Oh, how cute." Russia's responded, smiling as he always did, a hint of triumph in his voice, as if he had already won.

"Italy. Go and get it. It's in the the back." With a nod, the Italian dashed out of the bar, and long before now, everyone watched the four men like they were a show. They both had that ferocious and clouded look In their eyes, wanting one to fall unconscious before he did. Liet just wanted this to be over with and wished he could go sit back down.

The bar went deathly quiet as Italy walked back in, the green-labelled bottle in his hand. The Italian backed away as he set the beer next to the vodka, and went and sat back down. Russia dismissed his lapdog with a flick of his hand, and Liet went to sit by Italy.

The Bartender sat down four empty shot glasses, and the nations filled two shots with the alcohol they had bought.

"If the shot doesn't knock you onto floor, Germaniya, then you drink straight from bottle. And I do the same."

The blond nodded hazily, accepting the Russian's terms. "And if I win," Italy dashed up, from his seat, grabbing Germany's shoulder. The drunken nation shook him off- staring into violet eyes. "I get your _Hündin_."

_That_ caught Liet's attention, and the Baltic scanned and analyzed his master's face, trying to tell how drunk he may be. Trying to measure his chances, as well as how safe everyone else in the bar was.  
He also set aside his annoyance for what Drunk Germany just called him.  
Russia's smile faded, and the smallest glare danced onto his face, and the air around him became thick with hate. Ivan leaned forward, his gaze landing on the Italian, who failed at trying to cease Germany's rashness. Ivan glanced back at the blond man sweetly. _"Und ich bekomme deine._" He replied in German, stern.

Germany seemed to hesitate, almost fighting for what little sense of sober he had left. "Or," Ivan continued, "you give up now, and we all go home. Or, I can have the joy of seeing you unconscious and weak, and I have full access to do as I _please_ to your body. And your little puppy won't do a thing about it. But- I'm sure you're used to it. Especially with what your own soldiers did to other women." *****

Germany lurched back, feeling his puppy tug on him and speak in rushed Italian. Something along the lines of, bad idea, raise the white flag and go home before someone got hurt or did something they would regret deeply. The blond looked angered now, his fist clenched, almost thinking of punching the Russia's sweet face. Germany shook his head, staring at the Russian. "Or we just drink and see who passes out first instead of weighing our. . . Friends. . . Lives on the line."

Now _that_ sounded like Sober Germany.

Russia straightened up, smiling. "Da. But- one thing. You ever call my little Litva that again, and it _will_ be more than their lives on the line." The German nodded in understanding, as they both took a shot of the beer and a shot of vodka.

Liet stared at the two, and he could see Russia grab the Swedish Vodka, and tip it into another shot glass, with slowly shaking hands. He took another shot of the vodka, pretending it to be nothing, when he was struggling. Despite the calm appearance, Liet could tell Russia was feeling the effects of the vodka.

Germany's hulking form finally fell unconscious, falling off the stool and hitting the floor with a loud and defeating _thump_, just as he had been pouring another shot. Italy dashed to his side, taking the beer and setting it back down on the bar counter as the blond man groaned drunkenly. Liet's eyes flashed over to Russia, who didn't disapprove as he went over to the drunken blond.

Despite the fact Russia sat on a stool three feet away, Lithuania could feel his gaze, and the imaginary feeling of someone breathing down his neck.

"I will head to car, Litva. Help Italy with his druzhok, but do not make me wait long." Lithuania could hear the Swedish Vodka being taken away, all with the heavy footsteps that went to a car outside.

Lithuania the lapdog aided the weaker puppy of Italy in dragging the blond man to Italy's car, and buckled him in. The lapdog prayed a moment for Drunk Germany and Italy's driving skills as he shut the passenger door. Italy gave the Baltic a hug before walking to the other side, and glanced down at the unconscious German before looking back up at the Baltic.

"Lithuania, do you know German?"

The Baltic nodded quickly, wanting to get back to Russia before Drunk and Moody Ivan kicked in.

"What does _'Ich liebe dich,'_ mean?"

The Baltic turned away, already seeing Ivan waiting for him in the passenger seat of the distant car. Lithuania glanced over his shoulder, meeting gazes with Italy for a moment. "Well, my German is a little rusty, maybe you should ask him sometime?" Wait, why did he just do that? He turned around, facing Italy, about to speak again until the feeling of Russia's breath down his neck and his gaze on him rushed to him.

A bad idea to keep Russia waiting.

Without another word, Lithuania went to Russia's car, and saw that the larger nation had just fallen asleep in the passenger seat, and the Baltic drove him home.

* * *

**_German:_**

Scheiße = shit

Ficken = fucking (when translated as; fucking stereotype.)

Ich werede es zu beenden! = I will finish it!

Hündin = bitch

und ich bekomme deine. = And I get yours.

**_Russian:_**

Da = Yes

Ya budu nazyvat' vas, chto mne nravitsya, vy pedik = I will call you what I like, fag.

Германия; pronounced Germaniya = Germany

дружок; Druzhok = Boyfriend

i prefer to use the pronunciation, because it's dialogue. So you should read how it sounds. However, if it was writing, then you would use Cyrillic.

**A/N:**

Ok, this done mostly with google translate and google search, do if there are any mistakes, please correct me!

The part about the Cocoroco, it's one of the most alcholic drinks around, with about a 96% level.

Also, when Russia mentions to Germany about the women;

A lot of women were raped and killed by soldiers during WW2. If they were found, they would be raped and killed. And some of this even in their own countries. And suicide rates were high that year.

Really horrid stuff, guys.

Um, I think that's about it!

Thanks for reading, please R&amp;R!

_*** EDIT:**_

_** I was very mad with myself when I realized I got my facts wrong.**_

_**So, here is the correction;**_

_As it is known, **Soviet** Soldiers, especially once they conquered Berlin, and then East Germany, they murdered, looted, pillaged, and raped over a million women, ranging from 8 to 80, oftenly more than once._

_Along with this, it is suspected that not only did Soviet Troops do this, but American, French, and British as well._

The Next Headcanon:

_**America Divided; Part 1**_


	3. Sides of America, Part 1

**Chapter 3:** _**HeadCanons Four through Seven:**_

_Sides of America, Part 1_  
**  
HeadCanon Four;**  
_America has recurring flashbacks and/or nightmares about the past._

**HeadCanon Five;**  
_America tries to clean the storage room oftenly, but fails due to what's in there._

**HeadCanon Six;**  
_There was a Native America_

**HeadCanon Seven;**  
_Alfred was an Indian for a while._

**Characters:**  
_America, Native America, England, France, Canada_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Hetalia

**A/N:**

Um, I want to note, I end up using human names and country names interchangeably. Partly because it think it gets boring if I keep reading, America did this, America did that, Blah blah blah.

Now, let me tell you how much research went into this chapter. Enough that I had to split is chapter in half. Ladies and gentleman, to compile this chapter, I watched two documentaries, flipped through three books, (at least 900 pages), and at least went through twenty wikipedia pages, just a lot of stuff.  
In fact, this is just the first half of the chapter.  
I love this chapter so much, it broke me, but I love it.  
I mean, as I was writing this, I wanted to cry. I really did.

History notes at the end; Italic Dialogue means they are speaking in Tsalagi.  
I refer to little Al as 13, for the 13 Colonies, since America really wasn't a country or called America until the 1770s.

**A/N 2:**

**This chapter has been revised or edited.**

**Warnings:**  
_OOCness from England,(I imagine British Empire being a total dick sometimes, sorry.) violence, feels, feels to the left, feels to the right, feels up high, feels six feet down below, feels literally muthafucking everywhere._

* * *

The stale smell of dust hit his nose as he opened the door into the Storage Room. Any excitement or happiness faded off his face, as always. America looked to the right, where a clipboard and a calendar hanged on the side of a shelf. Taking a marker he kept on said shelf, he drew an X on a box with today's date. He took the clipboard off its hook, flipping through pages of dated lists of inventory and tables, from the many other times he entered the room. He flipped onto a new page, writing down the date.

Cleaning out the storage room, for the second time this week. He could say it had grown to be a pastime for him. Nothing on TV? _Clean out the Storage Room._ No Video Games to play? _Clean out the Storage Room._ Bored out of his freaking mind? _Clean out the Storage Room._ Spring cleaning? Clean out the Storage Room.

Of course, cleaning never lasted long. Something always made him stop and reevaluate his life choices, and left him depressed for the rest of the day.

Despite this, he kept coming back and cleaning.

Last time what made him quit had been a picture of an American-Japanese family, all frowning and wearing tags on their clothes. (1) The time before that, he had stumbled upon a copy of the Bee Movie.

Nearly three centuries of objects lied in here, and there was much in his past to be sad of.

America lifted a box, the first thing catching his eyes being a wooden chest, with a note taped to the lid.

_Do not open. Ever. Unless you wanna feel like shit._ _**-Alfred**_

Whatever could be in there, he didn't remember what it may be. Wouldn't hurt to look, right? He would tough through it.

America set down the other box, getting down on his knees and clicking open the latches. As soon as he lifted the lid open, his eyes laying on the material inside, he felt like, as the note predicted, shit. A frown came onto America's face, his eyebrows pulling back.  
He reached in, the first item coming out, a set of clothing made from animal skin. It didn't look new or pretty, it appeared worn, and scattered holes and burn marks in the skin. The clothing possessed a tan color, and it felt uncomfortably small in his adult hands.

A deep sigh released from him, sitting down and crossing his legs, the wooden floor creaking. He rubbed the skin between his fingers, before raising it to his face and rubbing it against his cheek.

**1674-1678  
**  
He had grown since England found him, since they almost lost Jamestown. By human age, he appeared to be eight years old now.

The land of changed, he had noticed, what once had been trees, there were houses. Where there had been groups of innumerable animals, had been desolated or hunted down. Where there were once the "Savage People" Big Brother had warned him to stay away from, were now colonial people.

New England felt like he hadn't seen his Big Brother in forever. He honestly wanted boats to be faster. It took three months for a boat to cross the sea, and six months was too long between visits.  
Big Brother had been mean to him to him in the last twenty years, but that's what Big Brothers did sometimes, right? Sibling Rivalries, anything could happen, right?  
They had expanded the land, met Indians, and hey, had gotten some Indians to convert to Christianity and have some of his customs! Maybe he could get all the Indians to be like him one day!

Well, his Big Brother wasn't too important right now; someone in Plymouth had screwed up, so at the current moment, he walked the path alone, on a road to said Colony.

He got there too late, just in time to see the crowd as he entered in, just in time to see three Wampanoags executed.  
He stayed in Plymouth for three years, for King Phillip's War. He wanted so badly to battle with the colonist, but they wouldn't let him, saying he was merely a child. _("But I'm an adult! I swear!")_

For three years, he witnessed a total of 3500 men die. (2)

By the end, he never wanted to have anything to with Indians again. He wanted to leave them be. He saw the true savagery, of both the Indians and, horrifyingly, his own people. Why did he even have to interact with the Indians anyway?

**1690**

_Where am I?_  
_  
What's going on?_

13 had last been at his home in Virginia, asleep in his bed. And now he, still in his nighties, hands bound, fear and confusion running throughout his body and- _Did I just wet myself?_

There were Indians in front of him, the Cherokee, at a guess. They spoke in rushed chatter and a language he didn't understand. One of them trotted up to him, a dagger in hand, yelling, as if trying to prove a point about something. The dagger made its way into his thigh, hilt deep, before being pulled back out.

He cried out in agony, wincing and curling his body as the wound started healing itself. That's what wounds did, since he had been growing stronger.

They suddenly backed away from him, yelling, pointing, and shocked.  
Another Indian, one he assumed of higher rank, grabbed him by his hair, causing him to cry out in pain, and dragged him outside, to the center of the village, where a fire brewed and towered.  
They stared at 13 as he passed by them, with hate and fear, like the boy wasn't a boy, but a disease that had to be killed.  
The Indian raised him up, the fire dangerously licking his clothes, chanting and screams of agreement all around.

He screamed. _Where was Big Brother? Brothers were suppose to look out for each other! Where would be a savior? Where was anyone? Why did they want him to die?!  
_  
The fear of dying like this, so young and prosperous. He closed his eyes, praying his last wishes to God, for someone, anyone, to save him, for forgiveness.

A feminine yell rang out, and the Indian holding him about faced, the crowd pushing aside. A Native American Woman walked up, grabbing the boy by the waist from the other Indian, speaking in a stern and angered tone.

The crowd quickly dispersed, the fire put out, and him clinging onto the woman.

She carried him into one of the other tents, where he assumed she lived. She tried to pry the boy off her, but with no success. The boy possessed unnatural strength- and being so terrified, he was unable to contain it at the moment.  
13 honestly felt confused and conflicted. This lady- _an Indian-_ had just saved him. _Why would she do that? She was a Savage! Right?! _Britain had told him how they worked, they lied to you, they murdered you, raided and took away everything!  
_So why did she just save him?_

What did he do to _deserve_ to be saved? And yet, he clung to her torso, his arms wrapped around her tightly, burying his face in her tan animal skin clothes. The boy felt himself shaking, as well as distraught and exhausted.

He wanted his Big Brother. He wanted his family.  
But when would Big Brother return?

He needed someone, _right now._ He wanted to go home. He wanted a mom or a dad to cling to. A person he trusted in for comfort and safety, a luxury other kids had.  
13 fell asleep out of exhaustion, still gripping tightly to the Indian's sides.

Over the next few months, he integrated into the Cherokee tribe. It didn't happen overnight, no, he worked and helped, adapted and gained the rest of the tribe's trust. Weird as it seemed, he thought he was a slave and a prisoner to them, but they treated him as equal, despite him being a white man. With the Colony's slaves, they were treated as, well, slaves.

The colonist had always taught him that kidnapping was a sin.

Yet, now that he thought of it, both sides were equally horrified. Indian slaves were treated as equal, kidnapping being a norm, but then, the slaves in the colonies. . . They were mistreated and below the very ground they walked on.

He learned the language, Tsalagi, with some difficulty. His mouth barely opened, and his tongue always pressed against his bottom jaw. He had long since burned his nightie, and wore the skins of animals he hunted. His once pale white skin, now had the slightest tan. His blonde hair, tied like the other tribesmen. He wore paint in rituals and ceremonies, he hunted like the other men in the tribe, he defended the land that rightfully belonged to the them. He proved to be a powerful asset too, with his ability to _literally_ throw bulls.

But even more, that he understood English. More than once, White Man would come onto the land, with papers, telling the Indians that the papers were peace treaties and promises to help each other out. When, as soon as Throwing Bull looked at them, the papers were actually asking for ownership of the land and right to do what they wanted. He would translate for the chief, and the White Men would be driven off in a heartbeat. Along with this, he taught the Chief English.

He had his own horse too, and he named her Liberty. Because Liberty _ruled_, and so did the paint mare.

Big Brother Britain, now long forgotten, and saw the native woman who saved him as his mother. She symbolized Native America, and was known as Awenasa, or, "My Home," among the Cherokees. It depended on which language's land she resided in. He loved her and looked up to her, and she loved him back.

Britain didn't matter anymore. Just her. She was actually there for him. She raised him better than the colonies or Britain ever would. Britain set laws, Britain did what he could to make sure he remained under his control.  
The more he thought about it, Big Brother had been a jerk to him. Britain never came to help him. Awenasa did. Britain didn't give him mental or moral support! But who did?! Awenasa!

He saw Awenasa as his mother. Now and forever.

13 quickly threw away his Colony Name, no longer the 13 Colonies of Britain, and felt all the responsibilities and hardships drift away from him. Per Tradition, Awenasa gave him his first name, _Wunadegvi Tsukanvsdena_, meaning_ "Throwing Bull." _

_(And upon being asked to change it, he said he liked it the way it was.)_

He lacked oppression and taxes like this, and gained something that he would strive for for the rest of his life, and would do anything to have.

_**Pride.**_

And not just any kind of pride. Pride in his actions. Pride in himself. Pride in the way he lived. Pride in this land.

And Pride did crazy things to people. Whether it set fire in the hearts of man, or drove you to do impossible things.

-x-x-

There was a day that he found himself sitting alone in the forest, rubbing mud onto his skin, and face. It had rained the day prior, and after noticing the other members of the tribe, he felt displaced and alone.

When Awenasa found him, she stopped him, rubbing off the mud.

"_Throwing Bull, why and what are you doing?"_

"_I'm not like you."  
"Of course you are like me!" _Awenasa replied, startled.

"_No, I'm not."_ He said, coating his hand in more mud.

"_Why do say that?"_

"_Look at me. . ." _The boy stretched his arms out, gesturing to his body._ "I'm a white man- White Man, they've treated us so poorly. . . They try to trick us again and again. . . The White Man is a monster, Awenasa. And I'm one of them." _

She shifted, getting down on her hands and knees, eye level to him, and reached out a comforting hand. Throwing Bull pulled her hand down. "_My eyes, they are blue. My hair, blond- and that little curl that won't stay down. . . And you-" _Throwing Bull's eyes now directed to her, and then covered his face with his hands. _"You have brown skin, brown eyes, dark hair- and so do all the others. And-"_  
_"Throwing Bull."_

He silenced, finding hot tears blurring his vision. A hand cupped his face, wiping away tears, rubbing at the mud on his face. His head tilted upwards, meeting the kind and forgiving eyes of Awenasa. _"Oh, my little Bull." _He found himself being pulled into a hug, his face being pressed lovingly against her breast. Tears dampened her clothes, and she rubbed his head reassuringly, running gentle fingers through his hair.

"_I'm a monster, aren't I? I'm a disgusting White Monster. . ."_

Her voice shushed him, and hot tears trailed down his cheeks, staining her clothes. _"My Little Bull. . ."_

A sob racked his body.

"_Throwing Bull, listen to me." _His face was tilted up, looking into the kind eyes of Awenasa. _"You are not a monster."_

"_But- I'm one of them. I'm a monster."_

"_You are not a monster, Throwing Bull. You are a Cherokee, one of my people."_

"_But I'm-"_

"_Do you speak my language?"_

A nod.

"_Do you live like my people? Hunt like my people? Live happily with my people?"_

Another nod.

"_A monster is not defined by how a person looks, Throwing Bull. And you, are not a monster."_

Puzzlement leaked into his voice, the sobs finally gone. _"Then what am I?"_

Awenasa paused, then spoke. _"You are my son."_

**-x-x-x-**

When he had grown to the size of a 15 year old, Awenasa had asked him, _"Throwing Bull, you are still immortal, one of my kind. If you no longer wish to represent the Thirteen Colonies, then what will you represent?"  
_  
He thought long and hard on his answer. He wanted to be a part of Awenasa's World. Awenasa's World was perfect, her land, a paradise rich with life, her people, honorable and bound to traditions.

Hearing the Colonization from the Native's point of view, he realized just how wrong their actions were. Invasion, forcing the Natives to conform and subjugate. . .

Britain had been lying to him, the whole time. These shores did not belong to them, nothing here belonged to the White Man.

_"Awenasa. . . I want. . . I want to represent the paradise of your World. I want to be the open skies, the clean air, the lush plains, the animals. . . I don't want to represent the People or the Tradition, that's you. I want. . ." _Throwing Bull paused, trying to describe it. _"I want to be the freedom and grace of the life here. The Wild. You see, like the eagle, he can go as far as the skies will take him. He has that freedom. He isn't scared of his sky because it's perfect. Well-" _He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, flustered. Glancing away from Awenasa, his mind drew to a blank, trying to formulate the right words. _"I mean, the perfection of the land and the sky. The outburst of pride and joy filling your chest, just thinking of such beauty. . ." _Pause.  
_"Do you get what I mean?"_

Awenasa understood. The skies were wide and open, the plains endless. This land was a paradise on Earth, and she could see the Greed and Envy of the paste-colored people. And yet, this little boy, he didn't have that same envy. _But why? _

_"I understand, Throwing Bull. I discussed with the Chief earlier. You are going to take the rite of passage in two sunrises."_

Throwing Bull's head snapped up, blue eyes wide. The rite of passage was the transition from a boy, into a man.

-x-x-

Awenasa had to stand in for a father, as he had none. He felt her hands on his shoulders, guiding his step. Throwing Bull had lost his vision, due to a blindfold being wrapped around his head. Hands guided him, now sitting down on a stump.

He was still.

He sat there, blindfolded, the rules repeating in his mind.

He cannot move, remove his blindfold, or cry out for help until the sun rays shine through the blindfold.

And that's exactly what he did.

And upon removing the blindfold in the morning, there was a content and smiling Awenasa staring at him, ready to take him back, as a man.

-**x-x-x-**

He loved living with the Cherokee tribes, he loved every minute of it.

Throwing Bull never wanted it to end.

He dreamed to ride across the endless plains on his horse, to be free and happy, for Awenasa to stay with him forever.

To never be left alone again, was the ultimate dream of Throwing Bull.

**1735-1760**

Britain's eyes narrowed, a frown on his face. Ever since he had gotten word of New England, the boy, disappearing in the night, his mood had went from concerned to furious that he had been kidnapped.

He couldn't be dead either, he just _**couldn't**_. He had finally gotten a boat to his colonies in 1720, and hadn't stopped looking for the boy since then. He had received a tip of a young white man that had been taken by the Cherokee tribe a small ways away yesterday, and he had to make sure. To be diligent, to find what rightfully belonged to _him_.  
He sat upon a dusty, worn horse, which he had gotten from the Virginia Village nearby. The edges of his black cloak draped over the sides, his hood drawn down to cover his forehead, a scowl on his face.

Britain shuddered, thinking of the boy living under those. . . _Savages_. God only knows what they did to him. When he finally saw the Cherokee village, his scowl formed into a look of disgust. Emerald eyes swept through them, until-

_**"Thirteen."**_

His expression morphed once more, from disgust to a pitiful frown. His Colony- his _Son_, his Little Brother, _here_. The white skin, those playful and innocent blue eyes, the weird cowlick that stood up no matter what was done to it. And, at this last fact, his face morphed into disgust again. These Savages had turned his Colony into one of _them_.

_He would have to fix that, wouldn't he?_

Britain turned the horse around, running back to the town to collect people.

**-x-x-x-**

A different air lingered in the tribe the next morning- Throwing Bull could sense it, everyone could, news came to confirm it, and the Chief called a meeting.

_"Yesterday, one of our scouts spotted a white man on a horse in our land. We don't know why he appeared, but that does not mean we dismiss this. I want all of you on your guard, and be ready incase the white man returns for blood."  
_  
White Man never came in peace. They came in greed and tricks, Throwing Bull knew that.  
The chief flew out a few orders to go patrol the area, and they were dismissed.

Throwing Bull and Awenasa now sat in their tent, in a shared silence and on opposite sides of the room. He spoke first. _"Do you think it could be-?"  
_  
_"No,"_ Awenasa's reply was short and cut-throat. She released a sigh, staring at the teen. _"Throwing Bull, why do you always ask me when there is white man in the land?"_

_"Because. . . Well I mean. . . It's not because I miss him. . . It's just that, I know that if he ever finds me, he'll kill everyone here. And- then he'll take me away, he'll make you a slave. . . I don't want that to happen to you. Or anyone. No one deserves that."  
_  
_"I know you do. I promise, I won't let him take you away."_

Throwing Bull stood up, going to the other side of the room, sitting down next to her and enveloping her in a hug. _"And I won't let him hurt anyone here."_

A few minutes later, the stomping of hoofs and frantic yelling came, and the scouts had returned. Except. . . One man was missing. As well as a horse.  
_"White men are coming! Very large group! They all have guns and horses! They will be here soon!"  
_Everyone got ready. They hid the children away, the women grabbing weapons to defend themselves and the children.

Throwing Bull quickly put a zigzag line across his forehead,(2) and watched Awenesa run off to protect the children. He quickly readied himself for battle, grabbing his tomahawk, and his rifle.  
Soon as everyone had gotten their weapons and readied themselves, the white man barged in, their horses nearly trampling a few tents, and stopping in front of the Tribe.

A man on a black horse took a few steps forward, wearing a matching black cloak that covered his face. Everyone raised their weapons, expecting him to attack.  
He folded down his hood, and Throwing Bull's entire body went rigid.

_Britain._

_**Big Brother.**_  
_  
No! He would take him away! The tribe would perish! And. . . Because of __**him**__._

It would all be his fault. It would be his fault that Britain would leave a path of destruction and pain.

The chief took a few steps forward, his own weapon ready and gripped tightly.

"I know you have him."

Throwing Bull fought to keep his posture, to show no weakness or fear.  
"Who?"

"The Thirteen Colonies. He belongs to me. Come on, he's the only white man in your group."  
Eyes glanced back at him.

Oh Great Father, whatever the chief said; it would decide his fate.

"How does Throwing Bull _'belong'_ to you?"

"I found him. I colonized this land. He belongs to me, and he will come back with me."  
Did Britain even realize how _stupid_ he sounded? How ignorant and foolish his words were?

"Throwing Bull does not belong to you. If he doesn't want to go with you, then that is his decision. Throwing Bull, come!"

He went past the others, going to stand next the Chief. Britain's gaze landed on him, one of those bushy eyebrows raising up, and a look of disgust filling his face. Britain sighed. "Good then. New England, let's go." The Englishman turned around the horse, and Throwing Bull spoke.

"What if. . . I don't want. . . To?" The words came out slowly and felt weird on his tongue. While English remained as his first language, he hated it. English disgusted him. He believed it to be the language of monsters.  
Britain whipped around, the horse turning in suit. Disgust morphed into shock, and a scoff sputtered out. "And why In bloody hell would you not want to?"  
"Because. . . Because I have a family here. I. . . Have a mother. . . And, I like living here. I. . . I wouldn't trade it for anything else."

Britain stared at him, gaping, before it turned into a furious glare. "Oh my god. They- they brainwashed you! These savages. . . They made you one of _them!_" Britain pulled his gun, readying it. _**"Kill them! All of them!" **_Britain pointed his gun, and shot in the group's direction. White men rushed forwards on their horses, trampling anything in their path.

Throwing Bull went rigid. He _knew_ Britain would do this! Maybe he should have just surrendered. . . But- He loved living here. He cherished it. He felt free and powerful with the Indians, he felt important!

_**This was his home! **_

_**Awenasa's home!**_

_**Their home!**_

_**And if he had to die to protect it, then so be it!  
**_  
_This is wrong! Britain should just mind his own business! Let me be free to live as I choose! Freedom. Pride. To have Freedom. He would be Free! He would be free of Britain!  
_  
He now noticed the battle raging around him, the men fighting, horses falling, screams of death and roars of triumph.  
_**  
BANG!**  
_  
_Everything stopped._

The chief fell dead, a shot in the nape of his neck. And behind him- stood a person he would hate forever. A person with smoke still rising from the barrel of his gun.  
_**  
Britain.**_

A new found fury swept over and took control of Throwing Bull, and he pulled out tomahawk, lunging at the Brit and knocking him off his horse.

_"Murderer! Murderer!" _He screamed, as England got up, sword pulled. The two brawled, punching and kicking, Axe meeting Sword.

"You will come back with me!"

_"No! I won't and I never will again!"_

"Stop speaking bloody French you insolent child!"

How _dare_ Britain say that to him!

Britain felt horrible, fighting his own son. But- these savages had brainwashed him! They had changed him! They would pay for this! His colony!

His _son!_

He would take the boy home, even if he was kicking and screaming!

As the battle progressed, Throwing Bull suddenly heard the screams of children- which meant someone had reached the kids, and a white man would die. Delivering a final punch to Britain's face, sending him back a few feet. He heard Britain yell behind him, but it didn't matter. He rushed through the battling masses, people falling dead or injured on both sides.

Throwing Bull rushed into where the children were hiding, and fury rose in him, his grip tightening on his axe. Two white men were in there, and Awenasa was being held down by her neck.

His axe went through the neck of one, and the other man, he grabbed, breaking his neck. He let them both fall dead, helping Awenasa up.

He ran back out, seeing his friends, the tribesmen, people who treated him more like a family than anyone else, falling dead. And Britain- walking towards Throwing Bull, his cape flowing behind him, any warriors who came at him got a shot to the head or a sword through the chest.

_A fire blazed in Throwing Bull.  
_  
And fire, it lived as its own entity. Its licks could burn down buildings, its fury raged, a beast of destruction in the wrong hands.

In the right hands, however, fire existed as a kind and gentle spirit. Fire kept a family from freezing to death. Fire boiled water and cooked food.

But fire, in any form, could kill.

_And Britain would be burned __**alive**__._

Throwing Bull stared at the approaching Brit, before turning and finding his horse, jumping on her and charging. Rather than flinging a weapon at him, as he ran past the Brit, he seized the hood of the cloak, choking him and dragging him.  
_  
Do not lose! Not without a fight!_

Everything went fuzzy with the rush of adrenaline, with people screaming and falling dead, with the threat of the children being hurt, with Britain being there.

His horse tripped, his body thrown, his grip on the Englishman released.

Next, he found himself with his face being forced into the ground, being restrained with ropes, being thrashed about, until he was forced to his knees, in a line with others.

Most of the warriors laid dead. The living were bound with ropes and forced to kneel before Britain.  
"What do you suggest we do?" One of the white men asked, who glared down at the remainders of the tribe.  
"Kill them all. Except the white one and the woman."

No- No! Throwing Bull thrashed, trying to break free of his restraints, and feeling them snap. He kicked away a white, who about to kill another one of the tribesmen. He ripped off Awenasa's ropes, then another warrior's.

_"Get out of here! Take the children! Do what you have to! Run away!"  
_  
As they undid the other's ropes, Throwing Bull gave it his all, defending them, getting the remainders of the tribe to escape. Making sure they kept their freedom. He hurt anyone who came near them. They got on the horses, the children with them. Everyone ran, except Awenasa. She turned, mounted on Liberty, staring at him, waiting for him come.

Throwing Bull turned, facing her.

He want to, he wanted to so _**badly**_. He wanted to run away with her and try to rebuild the tribe, be free forever, but he couldn't. Britain would follow and track him down, and only kill more.

_"Go! Mother! Run! Please! Get out of here! Just go! It's me he wants!"_

Awenasa seemed to hesitate, and he could see tears threatening her eyes. She rode away on Liberty.  
_  
"I'll return to you one day! I promise, I will! I'll come back to you!"  
_  
He turned around, holding up his hands, folding them behind his head, and got down on his knees, Bull felt his body being tackled and forced to the ground, facing Britain and the five men that had survived with him.

He felt any happiness he had vanish.

Britain approached him, tying his hands and making a leash. The Englishmen pulled on the rope, making him walk along, and looped it around his saddle. They met gazes briefly, Alfred glaring, and uttered a few words under his breath.  
_  
"I will hate you forever. You may have won the battle, but you will not win the war."  
_  
English glared at him, sucking in a breath, clenching his teeth. He grabbed the blond's hair, emitting a cry from the other, and bringing his face close. _"I will beat that savage language out of you, boy."_

Throwing Bull promptly spit in his face.

**1761 - 1773  
**

In the white man's eyes, Throwing Bull lived as a lesser human- no, not even human. A Feral Child, even. A human raised isolated from human contact from young age, with little or no experience of human care, of human loving or social behavior, or, crucially, of human language.

To them, he was a savage animal, as were all the other natives.

And like an animal, they put him in cage. In the brig.

The brig itself was awful- there were people loading and unloading on and off, it was rat-infested, it smelled musty and damp- it was cold. barely any light entered, and in the three month boat ride, all he could do was listen to any noise he made himself. And he was in his animal skin clothing- summer clothing, even. The bottom of the cage was molded, scratchy hay.

And the only light source was the grate that looked down into the brig. He often saw Britain's face of triumph and were staring down at him, checking on him.

He eventually stopped looking up, even when Britain called his name, just to see his miserable self.

Throwing Bull eventually started eating the rats-_ raw._ Skinning it and ripping off its fur with his teeth. Disgusting and made his stomach churn, but he prevented starvation.

He was sure he would be able to break out behind wooden bars- he could tell it had been hastily built, but constructed well enough to hold fast. For extra measure, they put him in iron chains, that rubbed his wrists and ankles raw.

He it would be too easy, to break out of the cage, he could punch it and be free. His heart screamed_ do it,_ but his mind knew it would be pointless. He was on a ship- a prison on the sea, heading to England, an island prison.

All he could do was wait. Three months. To the home of the British Empire.

When his casket- _cage_ was lifted up and carried on the shoulders of four men, he felt sick. Like so, he regurgitated rat onto the hay. His looked deathly white- lost of the beautiful sun-kissed tan. Britain waited for him at the dock, each step on the plank closer and closer to his doom. Standing next to Britain, a man with long blond hair, and holding that mans hand, stood a little boy, similar to Throwing Bull's size and age. Throwing Bull had noticed that he was getting smaller, down to the size of an eight year old.

Britain turned around to a small crowd, the triumph in his voice ever-present. "As you can all see here- I bring a Savage from the Colonies! Once a civilized person, kidnapped by a Savage Cherokee Tribe- and now, he will be tamed-"

_This couldn't be happening. _

At the edge of the plank-

Almost in his prison-

_**"TLA!"**_

The word came out in an urgent and furious scream, Followed by feverish and threatened screams.

_"AYV GANAQUATISDI NIHI! AYV GANAQUATISDI NIHI!" _He screamed, horrifying the crowd.

_"I'll kill you! I'll kill you Britain! I'll kill you! You are a monster! Monster!" _He threw his arms out, grasping the crossing plank sides, the wood cracking in his grip. He threw his body against the front, the cage tumbling forward, hitting the dock. Ignoring the disgusting hay that threw onto his body, he trashed, braking the sides, falling upon the wood of the dock. He looked up, hearing a french-accented, frantic yell, cries from the crowd, a commanding and furious roar from Britain. He got up on two feet, trying to run with the shackles on his ankles, but was quickly tackled by a sailor. Throwing Bull thrashed, trying to lift his body up, his arms reaching out, nails clawing the wood, legs kicking frantically.

_Click._

He stopped. He could see children hide behind their mothers, gaping mouths, angry men.

A barrel pressed against the back of his head.

"Now look what you've done, boy." The irritated Britain said, glowering at the boy. Britain turned,

"See Canada? This is what happens when you live with those Savages."

Throwing Bull's eyes traveled to the small boy, who's face showed of fright, he only gritted his teeth in response. _"Ayv ganaquatisdi nih." _He repeated, glaring at Britian.

Britain dragged him to his manor by his hair.

Upon arriving there, he was held down, his clothes being pulled off by soldiers, and Britain forced forced him into tight clothes and overcoats of men, even one of those nasty_ wigs. _He then took his indian clothes.

Britain approached the fireplace, the clothes in clenched fists. "Now, Thirteen. This is what happens when you resist the power of the British Empire. And your people? If they disobey. . . they will follow in suit."

He threw the clothes into the fire.

Throwing Bull screamed, running towards the flames. Britain grabbed him by the front of his coat, forcing him back into a seat. The two met glares, and the older prompt left the room, leaving him alone.

He scrambled forward, grabbing the clothes out of the flames, ignoring the neat and the pain from the flames. he stomped the fire out of the clothes.

Knowing Britain would return soon, he wrapped them up, and hid the clothes in a box.

Throwing Bull refused to speak English. The language thrived with greedy and malicious people, the culture it came from did nothing but Invade and conquer.  
And at this point, he would do anything in defiance of Britain.  
Britain also gave him a human name- Alfred F. Kirkland, for crowd situations.  
He eventually gave up on this act, as Britain would then slap him whenever he spoke Tsalagi.  
He found quickly that even small things pissed the Englishmen off.

He spelled flavour as flavor,  
_"What are you doing? You know how to spell flavour!"  
"Getting rid of you."  
_

He refused anything Britain gave him. Whether it be home-cooked meals, school work, he refused it.  
_"Eat. I made it myself."  
He shook his head.  
"It's been a week, boy. You have to eat eventually."  
He shook his head again.  
(Soon, Britain just locked him in a room until he ate the whole plate.)  
_

And Britain, in turn, would punish him. And punishing was never, 'Go to your room!' It would be either a slap or saying 'The Speech.'  
The speech enraged him more than any punishment Britain could lash him with. Saying the darned thing ruptured emotions of submission into his heart. It caused him to feel degraded- smaller- as it was made to do. If he didn't say it on command, he would be punished. Even worse, Britain made a trigger word for it. The moment the word would leave his lips, Alfred had dropped what he was doing, and perform it.

**-x-x-x-**

There was a knock on the door. Alfred briefly glanced at Britain, who was straightening out his outfit, then back at the work before him. He heard the door swing open, and the boy froze, the air in the room suddenly becoming unsafe and deadly.  
"Is he controlled now?"  
_The King._  
George the Third seemed to a normal guy, but, Alfred constantly felt unsafe around him. Like there was something in George- waiting to snap. George also had a love for his colonies, and his land. Which he barely understood- he heard George ramble about exotic plants and flowers, all wait to be written about. Of land untamed, of clean air and beauty- A Paradise on Earth.  
But was he really that special?  
And even more- was there a way he could keep this from The Empire's greedy fingers?  
"Yes, my King."  
"Are you sure he won't rebel?"  
Britain paused, managing to keep a straight face and a calm tone, ignoring his doubts. "I'm sure."  
"Show me."  
Green eyes settled on him, as he pretended to work.  
"Manchester." The tone came out sure and sly- like a hurtful truth.  
Alfred's fingers curled, and he bit his lip, resisting the urge to move- but this was in vain. He found himself now standing, his pen dropped- he bit his lip harder, but his mouth seemed to move and speak on its own. He stared straight ahead, at the wall.

"I am the Thirteen Colonies of Great Britain." His hands curled into fists-

"I am property of the British Empire." _I hate you, brother. I hate you._

"I follow by their laws, their King." _I will kill you one day._

"I accept their taxes with no retaliation, I welcome their rule, and live happily under it." _I'm going to make you suffer._

Britain spoke up. "Good. _Now say it again. _More passion, and louder."  
He gritted his teeth, resisting a growl.

"I am the Thirteen Colonies of Great Britain." _I want your head on a pike._

"I am property of the British Empire."_ I will separate from you. _

"I follow by their laws, their King." _Your king is a crazy asshole._

"I accept their taxes with no retaliation, I welcome their rule, and live happily under it." _Fuck you.  
_Alfred was still, his body waiting for Britain to command 'As you were.'  
George walked towards him, taking a seat in the chair on the other side of the table. "Well. I'm impressed, Arthur."  
"Yes, he was quite the pesky little bugger in the beginning, but as you can see, that's all gone now. Alfred, as you were."  
The blond sat, reaching for his ink pen, and wondering if it would be a good idea to throw his ink bottle in George's face.  
"So, you represent the thirteen colonies?"

He nodded, trying not to glare.  
"What's your name?" George pestered.  
"Alfred F. Kirkland." _Leave before someone loses an eye. Namely you._  
"Oh really? What's the F stand for?"  
_Fredrick_. That was what Arthur had taught him.  
Alfred paused, ignoring the slight worry ringing off from Arthur, and angled his head up, locking gazes with the king. His brow furled into a glare, his stare becoming determined and the fire showing itself.  
"The F stands for _Freedom_, your highness."  
England gasped.  
George's eyes widened, then turned into a glare. "Freedom from _what_?"  
A smirk crossed onto Alfred's face- he was gonna get the crap beaten out of him, but this was totally worth it. "From England."  
A hand suddenly smacked across his face, sending him back in seat, and leaving Alfred to rub a red mark on his cheek. He heard a gasp and a yell from England again, and a hand grab his collar, pulling his small body up, dangling. Blue eyes stared into the furious gaze of the King. "You will never have freedom- _never_. Do you understand me? Long as the empire stands, you belong to me." George's other hand pulled back- Alfred readied himself-  
"Your majesty!"  
The King paused, head turning to England, who held a pole at his side, with an emotion Alfred couldn't quite explain. "Put._ Him. __**Down**__._" Pause. "_Please. _Before you hurt yourself, sir."  
George plunked him back down in his chair, then strides to the door, stopping, his hand resting on the door knob. The King turned, glaring at Arthur. "Get him under control. I expect none of this next time I see him."  
"Yes, your majesty. I understand."  
The King left.

Arthur's gaze now directed at him. "You _idiot_."  
Alfred only returned a glare.

-x-x-x-

When France and Canada came for a visit, they were uneasy around Alfred. The boy seemed dead and emotionless, eyes lifeless and worn. They sat at the table together, gathered for dinner. Alfred did not speak to any of them, much less make eye contact. He stared at his plate, lazily picking at his food.

"Britain. . . Are you sure he is alright?" France asked, eyes on him.

The Empire's fork clattered against his plate. "What are you talking about? He's fine, perfectly healthy!"

France shook his head. "Non, that is the look of someone who's lost _everything_."  
Britain stood up, his chair scraping against the floor tile. "He is fine. Alfred!"

His head snapped up.

"You're alright, aren't you? You're happy here?"

He hesitated, and nodded slowly. _Lying is a sin. _He thought, looking back at his food.

"You see, fine." Britain sat back down, the rest of the meal ending without a word.

**-x-x-x-**

He had to escape. That was all. He dressed into Civilian clothing, quietly, as to not wake up Canada. He packed food and his indian clothing into a bag, and hoisted it over his shoulder, after opening the window.

_Something dropped against the floor._

"Alfred?"

He snapped up, looking at Canada.

"Alfred? What's wrong?"

"This. I can't live like this, Matthew. I can't. I want to go home."  
"But you _are_ home."  
"England is not my home. Nor is he my Brother, Dad, whatever. England is my enemy. Don't tell him where I went." He turned towards the window.  
"Okay, but, Alfred,"  
"What?!" He said, annoyance in his tone.  
Canada cocked his head. "Where are you going?"  
Alfred fell silent, thinking on his words.  
"I'm going to have a Tea Party." And leaving his brother in confusion, Alfred jumped out of the window.

**-x-x-x-**

After hitching a ride on a boat back to America, Alfred found himself in the Office of George Washington, along with many other men, trying to talk and plan. He felt confused and uneasy in the room. He was close the Washington, wanting to speak to him in private. Someone handed a firearm to the leader, "Ah, sir, your _Manchester_ Rifle."

His body reacted before his mind.

"I am the Thirteen Colonies of Great Britain." _No, no, no, no! _The words came out loud and clear, the room silencing.

"I am property of the British Empire." Some of the men in the room gasped, and Alfred covered his mouth, the rest of his words being caught in a muffle. Fear creeped into his bones, and his gaze went to Washington, who set his rifle down, staring at him.

"I- I'm so sorry sir, I-"

"Everyone _leave_."

The other men hastily left the room, leaving the boy and the leader alone.

"What _are_ you, kid?"

Soon as he explained his existence, that he was immortal, and why he was there, Washington quickly introduced him into the society, and guided Alfred in leading a revolution.

**1831-1838**

Of course he supported the Indian Removal Act. That was the American thing to do. It opened up 25 million acres! So much land- for crops! Farming! For the people!

_Manifest Destiny,_ they called it.

But- something felt wrong about it. Something that made him feel guilty. He resided at a little camp, (He called it Fort Freedom and was proud of it- he set up the little tent and living area himself.) in Arkansas, watching the crowds of Indians go through before they entered the new Indian territory.

It made him guilty to watch this- he could see animals fall dead from exhaustion, he saw mothers without fathers, children without parents, he had seen many people pass through, and with each group, he was disgusted with the act more and more. But what was he waiting for?

Each group, they all were the same, and different. Different tones of brown to red skin, different clothes, different languages, but they were all the same in a few ways too-

None of the Indians smiled. They all look disappointed, hopeless, forlorn. A few, despite their facial features, he could see a fire in their eyes. A fire that wanted revenge.

He waited, until the Cherokee came in 1838.

When the last group finally came, his heart and breath lurched, halting.

He saw _her_.

Distorted memories and sounds ran through his mind. Riding on a painted mare, next to her. Weaving baskets with her. Learning how to hunt from her. Learning to shoot. And he remember her, he remembered how she took him in cared for him. He panted, tears blurring his vision, a sensation of suffocation coming over and leaving in a wave.

"Mom!"

America dropped his lunch, leaving his post with a knocked over jar and a mad dash. He dove into the crowd, pushing and shoving, until she walked a few feet in front of him.

_"Mom!"_

The word and the language felt odd on his tongue, but, it felt natural. Why suddenly speak it, as if it was his native tongue.

He reached forward, grabbing her shoulder, squeezing it. America heard her cry out, and she whipped around, slapping his hand away. They locked gazes, her eyes staring into him, his own squinting. He glanced down, noticing the small child in her arms. Looking back up, he stepped back, the crowd around them blurring into obscurity, everything in his vision focussing in on her.

_"Mom? It- it's me- Throwing Bull!"_

She stared at him, her eyes dulled, expressionless, and eyebrows narrowing. Her lips formed into a frown, and she turned away, about to continue on her way. America grabbed her shoulder again, this time not letting go. She rounded around again, now glaring at him.

He leaned away in the slightest, grip still on her shoulder. That fire- the fire of pride, a fire of hatred and revenge, it burned as an inferno in her brown eyes- he wanted to step away and leave, act like he had never witnessed the last seven years. But he couldn't. He couldn't leave, not now.

_"What do you want?"_

The direct venom of her tone made America take in a breath. She didn't even address him- as if she had never trusted him, much less met him, in her whole life. She spoke like he was an enemy and stranger, holding the child in her arm tighter.

_"I- it's- I-" _She only continued to glare as he fumbled over his words. _"I- something told me to come here. He made me forget all about you, about everything you did for me. . . I- I'm- sorry, mom. I really am." _He could feel a wetness stream down his cheek, and he wiped it away with his unoccupied sleeve.  
_  
"You should be."_

"Since England took you away, I have felt and heard and experienced nothing but pain and suffering. Of my people, of my land, of my animals, of everything that is me."

Guilt flooded him, throat burning, tears in his eyes, daring to stream down in exasperated sobs.

_"Your people invaded and claimed what was rightfully mine as their own." __**True**__._

_"Your machines kill my buffalo, your saws cut down my trees, your guns take the lives of both my people and my animals." __**Also True.**__  
_  
He bit his tongue in an effort not to start crying, growing more and more sick with himself as she listed out each of crimes against the Natives.

_"Your pilgrims brought illness here, you demanded we convert to Christianity. Make us drop our beliefs and traditions, lest we face discrimination. You did what you could to make my people just like yours. You made trading posts, dressed us in your clothes, worship your god, live and breath and speak like you. Your colonies and your people committed mass murder."_

"But-"

"But nothing America. You will never receive any sympathy from me, or from my people. Not now, nor ever. You do not deserve such luxuries."

His eyes widened- she called him _America_. Least she could do was call him Alfred or Throwing Bull.

_"I have been hurting more and more since England stole you from me. He made you like his ideals. He made you think, breath, walk, talk, and act like a white man. You removed my people from my land, forced them out of their homes. You stole, you lied, you tricked my people into selling their land to you. I revoke you of your manhood. And I proclaim Throwing Bull to be dead."_

His breath caught, and the streamed down his face now.

_"America, you may say and think that you are this land, but you are not. You are nothing. You are America, the America that England made. Not the America I tried to raise. I don't even have to ask The Great Father for great suffering on you. __**You will never be able to feel like one, whole, true person again, America**__."_

"What- What do you mean, why?"

She now faced away from him, cradling the child in her arms- fury and disdain radiated off her. _"America, do you know what the worst thing about betrayal is?"_

Pause_._

"_It can only be done by a friend."  
_  
And she was gone.

It would be the last time America ever saw his mother, and he never felt so alone.  
**  
Present Day  
**  
America sighed, settling the clothes down, tears blurring his vision. He took off his glasses, wiping them away. He grabbed his clipboard, noting down the item, where it was located, how old it was, and that he would keep it.

He folded the clothes, putting them gently on top of another box. He rummaged through the chest, finding feathers and photos, bringing back regretful memories.

Then he saw _it.  
_  
He gasped, pulling out an unreasonably small and blood stained grey uniform. He unfolded the uniform, his face frowning. A small black and white photo fell out from the folds. America scrapped it up for the floor, and looked into it.

Two boys, a younger version of himself, and the other, a younger, near identical, kid in uniform. Despite the desaturation, he could tell the colors. His gaze travelled to the boy in the grey uniform, and he sat back against the chest, tears filling his eyes, again.

* * *

(1) Japanese Heritage Families were marked with tags on their clothes when they went to the camps.

(2) King Phillip's War was one of the first major conflicts between the colonists and the Natives.

(3) The Zig-Zag line was a War paint symbol, believed to give the warrior strength and speed.

**Translations:**

"Ayv ganaquatisdi nih." - I hate you.

"Tla" - No

I think I explained most of it in the chapter, but incase I didn't, let me know.

Also- this was just about 9000 words! :D  
**  
Up Next:**

_Conner C. Jones. _


	4. Sides of America, Part 2

**Chapter 4: **_**HeadCanons Eight Through Eleven**_

_Sides of America; Part 2_

**Headcanon Eight:**

_America has scars from Self-Harm (Civil War)_

**Headcanon Nine:**

_A nation's body represents their land. For example, the worse the war, the worse the event, the worse the scar. Depending on where it was in the country, the location on the body._

**Headcanon Ten:**

_America may be as unstable as Russia; sometimes go to each other for mental support._

**Headcanon Eleven:**

_Multiple things happened to Alfred during the civil war, and he wasn't the same after._

**Characters:**

_America, Russia, Germany, England, France, and OC: Conner C. Jones_

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Hetalia._

**A/N:**

_HEY GUYS_

_I PRACTICALLY SOLD MY SOUL TO SATAN TO WRITE THIS ONE_

_YOU'RE WELCOME_

I've had some difficulties writing lately. Highschool started for me, and I've been very busy trying to keep my grades up. I barely have time to sit down and write these days, and I hate it. Especially, like with this chapter, I'm having to write like a paragraph or two in different sections, and it makes me feel like certain sections have a different feel to them, and it doesn't flow as fluidly.

_***This Chapter has been revised and edited.***_

**Warnings:**

Blood, Violence, slight OOCness (From like everyone), and some Rusame.

And, I fucked up writing France's accent. D:

* * *

The Civil War still stands as the most terrible, bloodiest war in American History, cutting the land, the people, and himself, in two.

It exists as the most painful and damaging five years of his life. Americans killing Americans. Brothers killing brothers, fathers killing sons. No foreign army invading and killing his people, no, it was his people killing their own.

Like a sword in those cool ninja movies, the Confederacy was an extension of the United States. A part of the American soul and body, another version of the American dream. With different ideals and lifestyles, like people who didn't wet their toothbrush before putting toothpaste on.

Or people who put the milk in the bowl first.

Both of which were divorce-worthy.

A sword existed in a separate form, but it was connected to you, and moved to you, but with its own thoughts and feelings. And when you had will, you could _rebel._

_Why hadn't he burned this uniform?_

Alfred stared at the grey coat, rubbing the wool between his fingers.

His fingers tightened on the uniform, bracing it against himself. Pulling up his knees to wrap his arms around them, the uniform between him and his legs.

His face went taut, trying to restrain himself from breaking down in tears or gross sob.

He wasn't some sissy! Heroes only cried when the moment was right!

Crap, was that a tear trailing down his cheek? America wiped his arm across his face, confirmed by the dampness.

"Damn it. . ." He sucked in a shuddering breath, his body shuddering for a brief moment, then relaxing.

Images strolled through his mind, remembering.

**1860**

His eyes shot open, staring up at the wood ceiling of the White House. Something was wrong- goosebumps formed on his arms, the hair on his neck stood, his body felt numb- like static.

No feeling came from his left hip.

America threw his legs over the side of his bed, trying to stand. Soon as he locked his knees, they buckled, and Alfred collapsed, toppling over his nightstand.

His hip burned. His heart locked in an inferno, chest searing in pain.

_I can't breathe!_

He was suffocating on his own air- the world was going dark.

_He screamed._

The United States of America fell on his side, gasping, before everything faded to black.

He awoke back in his bed. A damp cloth on his forehead, the door shut, possibly locked.

_Wait._

He tried moving his arms.

Panic sunk in.

Leather straps wrapped around his legs, his arms, his wrists, across his chest-

Like some lab experiment or a psychopath.

His heart, his hip- his mind unable to focus on _anything_ but the searing agony in his body.

Alfred screamed, writhing in his restrains, the cloth falling away, his arms and legs thrashing, his head moving back and forth.

A maid rushed in, forcing his arms back down, cooing and saying reassuring and comforting words, which scrambled into incoherent mumbles in his mind.

"Let go of me! Let me be free!"

The president came in, standing at the foot of his bed.

"Alfred."

America lifted his head, the room suddenly into focus, all on the president.

"Why? What happened? Why am I burning?! Oh god-" he threw his head back against the pillow, breathing heavily.

"It hurts."

"What hurts?"

"My hip- my heart- my chest, my body. . . What happened?" He look back to the president, desperate for an answer.

"Alfred. . . You told me once that your body represented the land."

"Yeah, But- But what does that have to do with me?"

"Alfred, South Carolina seceded earlier this morning."

**April 12th, 1861**

Screaming and yelling, thoughts and ideals. Ways of life clashing.

_I can't move._

_I think I'm at the White House. But. . . Am I?_

"Soldier! This is no time to sleep!"

What?

Where- it's snowy. . . A grey uniform?

"The Yankees are attacking, get your gun, let's go!"

A gunshot, and the man in the grey uniform gasped, falling forward, landing on him. _Why can't he shove him off?_

Another soldier walked up to him, blue uniform, and pointed his gun at him. "Please, don't-!"

_**Boom.**_

_"Will you let me see him?"_

_"Well, sir, you can try, but he's very unpredictable at the moment."_

_"I can handle it."_

"Fredka? Are you in here?"

Ivan? Wait- no, Ivan lived in Russia. Ivan couldn't be here, no one came for him. Was Ivan in a grey uniform? Pointing a gun at him?! (1)  
_**Boom.**_

Brandishing a blue uniform, riding a horse. _**Boom.  
**_The horse fell on its side, throwing him off. Something hit his leg. He couldn't move it. He fell unconscious.  
Screaming again, being held down, a saw going through his knee.  
His heart stopped from blood loss. (2)

_"He yelled at me. I hope he gets better. My fleets will be very helpful, da?" (See: Russia's Involvement)_

Grey Uniform, frozen in the snow.

_"Yes, they will. England and France, their leaders decided to support the South, and I think they are doing some trading. Which-"_

Blue Uniform, crushed from a cannonball.

_"Will have to be ceased."_

_"Precisely. So, you'll make sure Britain and France aren't going to try anything, correct?"_

Blue Uniform, trapped on sinking on a union ship.

_"Da. If war breaks out with the Union against Britain and France, my admiral's orders are to be placed under your command, alongside your own ships. "_

_"Thank you, Russia. Your naval forces are greatly appreciated."_

Blue Uniform, killed by a Confederate Family Member.

_"Lincoln."_

_"Hm?"_

Dying, over and over again, he seeing war as if he was actually there- like he was watching from various soldiers views.

Too much blood.

Too much _American_ Blood.

The death toll kept going up.

_"What exactly is your goal? To end the war? To end slavery?"_

_"My goal is for the __**reunification**__ of the United States of America."_

He was still trapped in his room of the White House.

He couldn't move. His people needed him.

A surge of responsibility filled his chest- a leader that needed to reach his troops.

Blue Uniform. 18 years old. Staring Into the face of a Confederate Soldier.  
"You Yankee scum are all tha same. You think your doin' good." He looked too young- he looked. . . _familiar.  
__No! No! No! No! No! No!__** NO!  
**_"But you ain't."  
_**Boom.**_

_"THE CSA HAS A BODY! LET ME OUT! HE HAS A BODY!"  
_He kept frantically yelling, thrashing in his restraints, until a maid came in, Lincoln a few paces behind her.  
_**"What?"**_

**August, 1861**

The last four months had been nothing but pain. Alfred couldn't feel his legs anymore, the south. Dark rings had formed under his eyes, unable to sleep, as whenever he slept, he lived in Nightmares. Seeing himself die in numerous ways, witnessing war and families being ripped apart. First South Carolina, then Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and lastly, Texas. Texas had felt like his whole right leg.

He could walk, run, and kick ass as usual, but-

It didn't feel right. He felt like they weren't there. Even though they were.

The Blue and Grey coats were at war, three months in, and he pleaded Lincoln to let him fight. Being too much of a danger in the White House, what better place to be immortal and dangerous than on the battlefield?

Still experiencing dementia, his dreams continuing to haunt him, but he had to tough through it. No one trusted him though, in fact, at night, he slept, restrained to his cot. These were restraints he could break out of, but it made everyone else feel better.

This was a war with no villain, he had long since decided. A war only of bloodshed, and nothing more. Whether Union or Confederate blood didn't matter in his mind, it was all American blood, on American soil.

The Union needed their nation, a hero.

He had to win this war. Losing was out of the question.

Maybe it would be the only way to reclaim his sanity.

And as far as he was concerned, his name was The Union. Just, The Union. There was too much to do to, and the name was something that didn't matter when he could be fighting.

But more importantly, he had to find the CSA's avatar.

**February, 1863- 2 Years into the War**

Alfred continuously went up to the front line, in a blue uniform. He had to fight, whether or not he could feel his legs. He would fight, no matter how unstable he might be.

He could feel it, though, every bullet that struck through uniforms, every chopped off limb, every bit of his people's pain.

He could hear the screams, the hatred rutting between families, the agonized screams of brother killing brother, of teenagers being killed, of slaves.

He could hear and feel _everyone_.

He could feel how different the ideas and opinions were, and how they tore him apart.

A pain he would never get used to. Going up close and personal, he decided, was the only way he could find the Confederacy. And even more, when his body was launched ten, twenty feet back by a cannon fodder, or caught a cannon shot in his hands and threw it back, when he flipped horses, threw rifles, the shocked reactions were _priceless_. Anything to make the Confederate army afraid.

Of course, this wasn't easy, showing off. But could he do it? By god he could, and he would.

**September, 1863**

Alfred glanced over the barricade- and finally, after months of searching, his prize was in sight, waiting to be claimed.

It looked a lot like him, which bugged Alfred.

He had pale brown hair, like it couldn't decide if it was blonde or brown. He didn't have a cowlick, like Alfred. He wore glasses in front of brown eyes.

Like staring at a discolored reflection of himself.

It drove him mad. This guy was his legs? The sword? The South?

The Confederacy. His Brother. His Sword. Literally a piece of him.

Somehow, he was sure the CSA recognized who he was.

They both did the same action.

Union jumped over the barricade, feeling bullets whizzing past him, some grazing his uniform. He could see the South stop and raise his gun, pointed perfectly to shoot Alfred in the chest.

Confederacy didn't shoot fast enough.

Union knocked the gun into the air, grabbing the grey uniform, turning and tossing the smaller body on the ground.

He could feel thunder rampage by him as both sides broke line, jumping out and charging, shooting at eachother. He could hear the roars of war, the wails of pain, the screams of loss, the booms and clanging of metal.

He could feel every life being lost.

"Die! You Blue Yankee!"

A yell came, snapping back to reality as a fist connected with his face, knocking him back on his back. Confederacy pounced on him, pinning him down, a knife glinting from a raised hand.

"You first, Slave-Keeping Hillbilly!"

Union ripped an arm free, and then slammed it into the boy's gut, making him gasp and drop the knife.

The two tussled and brawled, throwing punches and kicks, shooting racist and stereotyped insults.

"DIE!"

Alfred could feel something hit his legs, and watched as Confederacy fell back, clutching his knee. The Union pounced, wrapping his hands around the boy's neck, suffocating him into unconsciousness.

The CSA, now his prisoner.

**-x-x-x-x-**

_Slap._

"Name!"

"Damn you!"

_Slap._

"Give me your name!"

"Yankee Scum!"

Alfred was growing tired of this. The boy in front of him looked so young. He looked uncomfortably alike himself. The eyes, they had the same intensity and burning glare that the Union had.  
It almost made him feel pity for the boy.  
_Almost._

The CSA had hell to pay.

Alfred pulled out his pistol, pressing the end against the boy's forehead. "You will tell me your name right now." He leaned down, his face close the other. "Or I _will_ shoot you."

"Then do it! What do you care? You're just a stupid Yankee!"

"I care because you are important to me, and if I do kill you, I can keep doing it over and over again. Now," he pulled back the hammer. "Name."

The boy hesitated, seeming to process himself and his options. "Conner C. Jones, CSA. The C stands for Cotton."

_Conner Cotton Jones._

Alfred pulled the trigger, the gun clicking, and Conner stared at him, lips parted in disbelief. "Now, _I'm Alfred Fucking Jones,_ and you're why I can't feel my legs."

Alfred strapped him down, anger blocking his senses. Everything screaming in him to _kill_ the little boy. His muscles chanted, demanding that he slap Conner, punch Conner, leave bruises and make him cough up his own blood.

But that urge came from the people. Alfred, he felt terrible for Conner- all the boy would ever know and had ever known was a life of bloodshed and war. Conner, four years old, by country age, a mere toddler, especially compared to the Union, who was around 100 years old. Humanly, Conner's age and appearance ranged somewhere between 15 and 18.

Conner was just a child.

_But Conner had to die._

Or maybe he should try to be friends with Conner-

_No, Conner has to die! He's a rebel- he's a living act of treason!_

Why couldn't his mind make up itself?

**March, 1865**

The Civil War had been going on for nearly five years, with Conner kept as his prisoner. Conner had tried to escape, multiple times, with crazy schemes, and impossible plans. But Alfred always caught him and tied him back up. And punished him.

When a Confederate Unit ambushed, in hopes of getting Conner back, Alfred became enraged, and killed all of them.  
With his bare hands.  
In front of Conner.

It had to be one of the most soul-crushing and immoral things he had ever done.

When they did talk, he found himself close to fatally wounding Conner, or spewing insults at the poor boy, or getting information out of him by any means possible.  
At the time, he had never thought on his actions. War and rage blinded rational thinking. He banished anyone else from touching the boy, let alone seeing him. Oftenly, if he hurt Conner, he found himself apologizing and bandaging up the Southerner within minutes after.

As time dragged on, and the end of war drew closer, Conner warmed up to Alfred, in a strange way. He may be prisoner, and Alfred did not care why. It was nice, to say in the least. With Conner more as a friend than an enemy, things were easier.

Maybe they could learn to be brothers.

**April, 1865**

Conner was taken away in a skirmish, a prize to the confederate Army, to have their mascot back. Was Alfred pissed? Definitely. But, no matter. The end of the war laid on the horizon, and Conner would be back, in his arms, under his roof.

If anything, that he had learned from Conner, it was how the South felt.

Which, disgusted him. The CSA were traitors, and had to be taken down.

The South's aims were clear and definite, understood in the heart and mind of every Southerner. The Confederacy wanted it's independence: It's people, struggling for their freedom, were fighting off invaders.  
Invaders, who, wanted them to change. To live life like them, and conform to their ways.  
The average Confederate soldier may understand little and care less about the intricacies of the state's rights argument, but he did feel that he was protecting the home place against his people who wanted to despoil it, and that was enough for him.

**May 9th, 1865**

Grant and Lee were inside, discussing the surrender of the Confederacy. Alfred laid outside, in his bloody blue uniform, a smaller body in grey clung to him, sobbing and burying his head in Alfred's uniform, crying.

"Alfred, it hurts. Everything hurts. I can't feel my body- What's happening to me? Am I gonna die? Are you going ta kill me? Oh god, Al-"

_"Shhhhh,_ Conner, it's going to be okay. It'll be okay, I promise. After the meeting, let's go out, okay? We can be friends and live together. I can be your Big Brother, we can get to know eachother. You know, actually get to know eachother. I will never hurt you again, and we can go and ride around on our horses, and just, be happy. We can have fun, okay?"

"Pramise?"

Alfred froze- making a promise he couldn't keep. A hero didn't do that.  
But he had to be Conner's hero. Conner's _Big Brother.  
_Conner needed a hero, _right now._  
And he had to be that hero.

"I promise."

The boy released a sigh, slumping and relaxing against his chest.

Maybe they could like this. Maybe they could live together now- be friends. Maybe Conner would get to know a better lifestyle. Maybe he could do all the cool things big brother's did for their siblings. Maybe Conner could meet Canada.  
Maybe they could be happy, together, as a family.

A call of dismissal came from the meeting room, and too many things happened all at once- A great, almost uncontrollable joy swelled Alfred's chest, and he felt like he was king. He felt Conner slump and lay against him in a weird fashion.

He felt a burning, paining, agonizing sensation cut through half of his body, stretching from his legs to across his waist, running up his left side, then jumping and pinning itself in his left elbow.

A Scar.

United.

_He could feel his legs._

Another pain rocketed in his chest, burning his skin, close to his heart. His grip around Conner tightened, every muscle in his body and panic coursing in- telling him to rip open his top to asses his damage.

Agony, Joy, Concern, all at once, The United States of America could feel it.  
Alfred tried to move, to get Conner off, but he froze when he looked at Conner. Conner's eyes were dull and dead, like his very soul had been sucked from his body.  
Alfred knew it. He knew this would happen. He had tried to make sure he didn't feel like a complete shit when this would happen, but that had been unavoidable.

The Confederate State of America had dissolved. Still alive, but dead on the inside.

Ignoring the pain forming his lower half, America squeezed the boy's body in his grip, feeling tears blur his vision. He felt the boy's weakened heart beat, feel his light breath touch his skin. "Conner. . ."

"Union. Or, United States, I guess I should call you now."

Alfred's head snapped up, the two generals standing there. He wrapped his arms around Conner, even tighter. Lee stared at him, then at the small body in his arms. Grant's arms were crossed, giving him a look of, _get up, you look pitiful._ Lee bent down, reaching out an arm to touch them.  
"Union. I need to take Conner back home now."

**"NO!"**

Alfred stood up, heaving up Conner by his chest, and backed himself against the wall, trying to get away from the generals. Grant on his left, Lee bent down on his right. No- Conner was weak now. And, that meant that Conner belonged to him. . . And Conner. . . No one would take him away! Alfred braced himself back against the wall for support, his legs shaking, the world blurring in and out, the world trying to blur into mumbled and confusion.

"Conner, the CSA will stay with me! He- He's my other half! He- he- We're United!"

_"Alfred."_

His head turned to Grant. "Give him up. We won. There's no point in him staying around you."

"No! He belongs to me! I- I won't let you take him away from me!" Alfred secured the boy in his grip, getting away from the two generals. They stared at him for a moment, Lee getting up while Grant shook his head and sighed. "Fine then, Union. Take him with you."

The Union scampered out, Conner still in his grip, before reaching his horse. Where Conner's horse was, he didn't know. Laying Conner on the back of Pride, he walked away from the scene, the horse in tow, seeing soldiers clean up.

A few units in grey were burning or burying their flags, rather than surrendering them.

"So, I. . . Lost?"

Alfred's head turned, staring at Conner, who had adjusted himself, sitting up in the saddle, arms lazily wrapped around the brown horse's neck. "Yes."

Conner's arms unlatched, reaching up, slowing undoing his hat, a pulled out a small Confederate Flag from inside. He looked at it, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. Alfred reached foreword, trying to take it from him, only for Conner to pull his hand away. "Alfred. . . Please. I can't. . . I can't surrender it."

"But you lost."

"But it's. . my flag. I- please, let me burn it."

Alfred stared at him for a moment, before sighing and reaching the box of matches in his pocket, and handing them to the boy.

Days passed, and Alfred could barely stand to see Conner. His skin turned a pale white, his hair and eyes dulled, he became scrawny and skeleton like.  
Connor now shared a bed with him, and he clung to Alfred during the night. Alfred liked that. He honestly thought that if they didn't sleep together, he would disappear.  
And, One night, some time after the war, and the USA felt whole again, Connor's grip relaxed, and Connor's weight and presence vanished during the night.

The Confederacy, it's people and lifestyle now like the Union's.

The CSA died.

The next morning, Alfred awoke to an empty bed, the need to use glasses, and unable stop crying.

**1867**

America hadn't gone to a World Conference six years. Four because of the war, two because his government made sure that every bit of the Confederacy had died, smothered into the ground and left there.

That Conner would be a forgotten bad dream, and that slaves were integrated into society.

He felt sick. He felt mad, and so uncontrollably enraged. But at what, exactly? Europe? The War? The Confederacy? _Himself?_

Most of the Europeans hated him right now- and didn't even support him during the war. And with how he was growing, he knew he was a threat to others, perhaps a counterbalance for the British Empire.

But one person did support him, and the conference just so happened to be in his country. But, it was so far away. . . A ship ride and many train crossings at the least. He wished that someone would invent a way for humans, or nations, to fly. Flying- that had to be the ultimate freedom. (3)

**-x-x-x-x-x-**

America stood in front of the door, shivering from the snow outside, in his blue uniform, tears freezing on his face. His uniform had blood on it, still unwashed from the war. He planned it like that- just so that the rest could see how much bloodshed he witnessed, hopefully not getting one of those 'Oh, so what, you had a little war? When I was your age, I was dealing with the Black Plague!' Or, 'You didn't lose most of your army to Russia.'

God, he got tired of that shit the most.

He knew the other nations were going to ask where he had been for the past few years, and a bloody uniform would be their answer.

He knocked, and waited, the door opening. The tall Russian stood there, staring at him questionably. He wore a sweater and pants, the scarf around his neck. _(That thing had to be like- a body part, almost.)_

Alfred rushed inside without a word, wrapping his arms tightly around Ivan's torso, burying his face in Ivan's sweater. He could hear the Russian sigh, shutting the door. The scarf wrapped them, and he decided to freak about that later. Ivan grabbed the area behind his knees, trying to lift him up, and Alfred complied, latched onto Ivan like a child.

"Union. . . "

"Don't fucking call me that right now. Don't call me United or USA, or America right now. Just don't."

Russia heaved a sigh for the young country, carrying him to the couch, and sitting himself down. The other, straddling the Russian, arms moving to wrap around his neck, and burying his face in the scarf.

"And I swear to god if you start acting all crazy or grope me I will kick the shit out of you and leave."

"I did not intend to."

"Good." The western country staggered a breath, burying his face in Russia's shoulder, before pulling back and taking off Texas, setting it to the side. How the hell was he suppose to handle having glasses the rest of his immortal life? They were uncomfortable and annoying! (4)

"I see you got glasses."

Alfred buried his face in again, sniffing. "I don't want to talk about it."

He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think of Texas, or Conner, or of the Confederacy, or anything.

Alfred breathed, snuggling up against the Russian, content, for once.

Russia held back at perplexed reaction, half of his mind wondering, _like I was about to have lunch and he barges in here in a bloody outfit and now he won't let go of me like what the fuck its my day off  
_The other part was simply smiling, the scarf wrapping around the other's leg. Humming Beskrovny's Sad Song,(7) his fingers lazily trailing through blond hair, purposely avoiding the cowlick.  
"I am going to assume it was bad?" He asked, resting his chin against the other's head, lacing his arms around the other's body.

"I think your scarf is cutting off the blood flow to my leg."

**WORLD MEETING**

Everyone else was already inside. He straightened his coat, and listened to the mumbles and possible arguments about to start. America took a deep breath in, and out. He did not intend to piss everyone off and be violent.

The door banged open as he walked in, nations turning, staring or gasping at him in his uniform.

"And just where have you been?"

_Redcoat,_ America thought, seeing England standing at the head of the table, bitter and bushy-browed as ever. Alfred took a seat between Russia and France, sighing. "I've been busy."

"What keeps someone busy for six years?"

"The fuck do you think?" He replied, gesturing to the uniform.

"Ah. Yes, um, When we get down with everyone else, America, we should talk about what happened to you."

"Oh ho, the Confederacy lost, then." France whispered smugly, leaning towards Alfred, England droning on something about taxes.

"Yeah."

"A shame, no? My country rooted for them, they-"

Before Alfred could stop himself, he was standing, glaring at the Frenchmen, fists balled. "Do you wanna say that again, _Frenchie_?"

France hesitated for a moment, before standing, returning a hard glare. "I said, my government fully supported the Confederacy, and we may have fully recognized them as a country-"

America tackled the European to the floor, gritting his teeth, wrapping his hands around the other's throat.

"And furthermore- _**OUI!**_" England yelled out, and Russia bolted out of his seat and to the American, trying pry Alfred off, his grip refusing to let go, Germany appeared, unlatching his fingers.

France rubbed his neck, crawling away from Alfred, staring at the American, terrified.

"What in bloody hell has gotten into you America?" England asked, coming and standing beside America on the floor.

_"If you and the rest you fucking Europeans had never gone on exploration kick, none of this would have happened!" _Alfred suddenly screamed, glaring at them. "Goddamn you England, if you and your boyfriend there hadn't colonized me, this wouldn't have happened!"

The British Empire paused for a moment, thinking up a come-back. "Well- Well you wouldn't have _existed!_"

_"Good!"_

Arthur stared at him, wide-eyed. Everyone stared at him. Everyone, shocked and appalled by the way he acted right now.

"You don't get it. . . You fucking redcoat. . ." (5) Tears welled up in his eyes, but forced to keep them in, trying to retain any pride he had.

"You- ever since you fucking found me and colonized me, you've brought nothing but pain. I've felt nothing but pain! After the revolution, I felt so powerful, because I had no one holding me back. . . And then- Native America. . . You invaded her land, killed her people, her animals... I haven't seen her since the Indians were moved to Oklahoma... It's like when I get stable again, something decides to fuck up. . . Like shit- all I do is ruin other people's lives." Alfred shuddered.

"America, it couldn't have been that horrid-"

"618,222 _million_, Arthur! That's two percent of my population! It wasn't like they were from a another country or something! They were all American! Each and every last one of them! Every single one of them were _my people!_" He finally felt a tear trail down his face.

"Families were split apart, fathers killed sons, brothers killed brothers. . . This- this is the first time i've been able to feel my legs since 1861. . . And-" Alfred had to stable himself back on a chair, trying to stand.

"The- the Confederacy had an avatar- body-." He paused. "Whatever the fuck you wanna call it."

Hushed whispers of concern went around the room.

"His name was Conner C. Jones, and he died in my arms."

The tension in the room became thicker with each word, and everyone had quieted down.

"Alfred, how did the Confederacy have a nation?"

"They were enough of one, and they were enough to be an actual threat, that's why. Iggy- _goddamned you and France._"

"What?"

"You two betrayed me! Especially you, Arthur! And France- you motherfucker- I'll get to you in a second. But England- But you helped the South instead! And you know who, out of all you, helped me?"

A dead pause, the air thickening with hate and guilt as Alfred's finger raised, pointing at Russia.

"Him! Out of everyone! He's practically half a world across ocean and land from me! While you two- my own Dad, betrayed me! When are you just going to stop being an asshole to everyone you meet, England?! Let's tax my little colony, let's make him have more laws, drink a cuppa tea, allegiance to the king! Yeah?! Don't even say hi, it's just- give me money!"

An offended look danced onto to England's face, and he approached Alfred, reaching foreword to lay a hand on him. Alfred slapped his hand away, then punched England's chest, sending the Brit back a few steps.

"Don't- Don't you fucking _touch_ me! I hate you England! I hate you and every god damned tea-drinking asshole in your entire country!"

America suddenly turned to France now, his glare on the man. "And you- don't think I'm not pissed off with you! You- you perv, I know why you sold me the Louisiana purchase! (6) And fuck- you were considering recognizing the CSA as a nation! No- Both of you were!" _(See: France and the British Empire's Involvement)_

France's mouth gaped, an offended look on his face.

"Now hold up wanker- we were neutral during the war! We were just doing trades! And the Confederacy- we were just getting cotton from them! Now stop acting like a child and-"

America could feel himself lunge at England, everything going blurry and nothing making sense. He just felt so angry, he felt like crying and confessing just how much pain he felt. He felt stupid. His legs burned.

Next thing he knew, Russia had his arms wrapped tightly around him, holding his arms to his side. Russia's legs wrapped around him as well, restraining his legs and keeping him from thrashing. They were both sitting on the floor, America's chest heaving, tears burning his face, blurring his vision, streaming down his face.

_**"You will always be divided. You will always feel conflicted and confused. That is your curse."**_

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

_Slap._

America's head twisted to the left, and he looked back, seeing Germany crouched in front of him, a hard, stern look on his face.

"America."

He choked. Who was he anymore?

"Alfred. You must calm down, now. Now, look, I know you've been through rough times lately- but,"

"Lately?! You don't get it- The United States of America dissolved! And-"

Russia clamped a gloved hand over his mouth, silencing him.

"That doesn't matter- you're acting like a dumbass, and you are making a fool of yourself." Germany said sternly, standing up. "Now, Russia, keep holding him down until the meeting is over. We are all going to get back in our seats, and we are going to talk calmly and one at a time."

Everyone shuffled and moved, Russia getting up, uncurling his legs and standing, not releasing his arms. America felt the Russian sit down in a seat, then crossed his legs again.

Oh god- he felt so stupid and degraded.

"Anyone have any questions for America, that won't provoke anyone? And raise your hand."

England raised his hand first, speaking. "Alfred, tell me, who is mad right now? And who are you right now?"

"What?"

"Are you United? Union? Confederacy? Or are you Alfred?"

The blond fell silent, trying to think. "I- I don't know. I don't know, dammit! I'm not entirely sure who I am right now! And who's mad? I don't know. I just don't know. I think it's the Confederacy. I mean- I tried, the Union, we didn't agree with how they lived. . . And right now, we're still trying to piece ourselves back together. . . And Conner. . . He left a scar. From dying."

"Alfred."

America looked up, seeing Germany speak. "Tell us about Conner. You said he represented the CSA, Ja? What was he like? What happened to you when the CSA rose?"

Alfred's head laid back, feeling Russia's chest heave, and grip loosen the slightest. "His name. . . His name was Conner Cotton Jones. Conner- well, when South Carolina Seceded, I lost feeling to a part of my left hip. And then, by the end on the year, I couldn't feel my legs. . . At all. I mean, I could still walk and run, but I didn't feel them. I didn't need glasses. . ." Alfred noticed he was losing track of his words. "And right now, I can't feel anything below my left knee, but- that's from the people. A lot of soldiers, they had wounds so bad, that a lot of them lost a body part, and I can feel it." (6)

_He had to look so weak to them, didn't he?_

"Conner. . . When Conner died, he looked like fifteen, by human age. By nation age, he was four. Conner- I mean, he had just a kid. . . And, he had dusty brown hair, but without Nantucket, and brown eyes too, he wore glasses. We met on the battle field. We tried to beat the shit out of eachother. . . And we flung insults." Alfred paused, his throat heating up and his eyes burning. "When I think about him, it just makes me feel terrible. . . Because he grew up in war. And, when the CSA surrendered, just minutes before it became official, I was holding him outside the room they were meeting in." His head slumped, gaze going to his lap. "Conner. . . I wish I could have done more. And, I- I never got to know him. I was just such an asshole to him-"

He ended up retelling all the bloodshed, all the lives lost, he told them about his legs and Conner. He spoke, and he was sure they wouldn't look at him the same again.

"I- I don't like this. I don't like this. . . Why does war hurt so much? Why does it have to be so. . . Unfair? And painful?"

"Alfred."

"What?"

_"Welcome to being a Nation."_

**-x-x-x-x-x-**

Alfred sniffed again, folding the uniform back up, placing the picture on top. closing the lid of the chest, he sighed, and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. On the table next to the door, he picked the phone off the receiver, _(Why the hell did he have a landline still?)_ and dialed a number. He waited for three rings, and then the other side answered.

_"Rossiya Federatsiya zdes'?"_

"Rus- Ivan."

The voice answered back in English. _"You tried cleaning again, didn't you?"_

"Yeah. . ."

_"Alfred. I told you, if you're going to clean up that room, have someone there with you."_

"Yeah yeah, just look, can you come over?"

_"You want me to drop everything I'm doing, pack a two-night bag, book a flight to your house, cross about seven time zones, and come over at six in the morning, get a rental car- which house are you at right now?"_

"The one in Pennsylvania."

"_Yes- get a rental car, drive to your house, all because you need some moral support?"_

"Duh."

_"I be right over."_

* * *

**A/N:**

Okay, first, history for you. *Confetti*

**Russia's Involvement:**

Russia was the only country that out rightly supported the Union. Russia saw the USA as a counterbalance for the British Empire, and sent in two fleets of ships. One to New York, one to San Fransico. The Russian Admirals of the fleets were told that if they found themselves at war with Britain and FRance, that they would be under direct control of Lincoln's commands.

Russia got along well with America precisely because they both had rather strained relationships with the British and French empires. Russia was the first nation to gain most-favoured nation trading status with America.

The two countries generally had very good ties before Russia became the Soviet Union.

**France and the British Empires Involvement:**

France and England were neutral- and leaning towards recognizing the Confederacy by mediating "peace talks"- they were all too pleased if their upstart rival across the Atlantic was permanently weakened by his divided house. They sympathized strongly with the CSA- so strongly they had considered recognizing it as a country, and intervening for independence by force. They were also posing as a threat.

Quite a number of British politicians were for the South, although average people weren't because it upheld slavery.

America said to them that is they did intervene, that would be a declaration of war against the USA, and I believe the countries would declare war on each other.

Notes:

(1) This was a hallucination.

(2) Although the exact number is not known, approximately 60,000 surgeries, about three quarters of all of the operations performed during the war, were amputations. While it seemed to be drastic, amputations were intended to prevent deadly complications such as gangrene. Some of these were performed without anesthesia, in some cases leaving the patient with painful sensations in the severed nerves. ("Ghost Pains")

The removal of a limb was widely feared by soldiers, more than dieing.

In fact, I remember watching Civil War Journal once, and this little girl, who helped with First Aid a lot, within her own home, she wrote that there was a pile of limbs in the corner.

(3) I really think that Alfred has always loved flying- and yeah, one of the things im thinking about writing is him like- freaking out over the Wright Brothers.

(4) People who don't need glasses have no idea of what luxuries they have.

(5) I had America call England a Redcoat, because during the Revolutionary War, that was the nickname for British Soldiers. The Civil War broke out less than 100 years after the USA won the Revolution, so, yeah.

(6) The Lousiana Purchase was when France sold land to America, because it was broke, due to Britain and Haiti. The land became about 10 states, and was sold for what today would be 2 Billion dollars. (USD) And for that much land, that's pretty cheap.

(7) Beskrovny is a Russian Composer, and you can find Beskrovny's Sad Song on youtube.

**What happened to Alfred? D: That was soooo sad! D:**

Okay, I had three different things happen to him, pulled together from different ideas of myself and others.

Personally, I believe that Alfred has the strongest ties to his nation and his people.

**His Legs**

This ties to the, Country's Land = Nation's Body

His legs would be the south, because that is the lower half of his body. And. . . I've met people who can walk, but have no feeling in their legs. There's so much you can't do.

**Alfred:**

This actually came from kelbora on Tumblr, and when I saw her theory, I just knew I had to involve it.

Link to Full Theory: (Remove the spaces): kelbora. tumblr post/ 29764892003 /since-you-brought-up-your-idea-of-alfreds-mental-state

Alfred had multiple forms of dementia all at once. His awareness fluctuated between his physical present (in a locked room in Washington), to an active battlefield anywhere in the country, to aboard Union or Confederate warships somewhere in the Atlantic.

His memory would be compromised, he would have no concept of time, and he would have little sense of identity as well…

Given how deeply tied to his people Alfred is (closer on a personal level than most of his kind, at least) he would have taken those tolls very personally.

Alfred might have mentally transposed himself as having become some of the soldiers fighting on either side and that he might not have been so consumed by the experience that he would have completely dissociated himself as himself… but as whatever human he had taken the identity of and thus their subsequent fate (for example, if that soldier died then he would suffer that death in whatever manner it happened). That in mind… at this point in my head-canon he still didn't know that avatars couldn't "die" as humans did…he won't know that for many more decades until WWI. ):

Think of how terrifying that had to have been, dying over and over and over again, and constantly reliving hundreds of thousands of peoples' final moments as though they were your own.

**CSA Avatar:**

I have seen this, more than once. I have seen this in different forms, some where the CSA was an Identical Twin, some where it was a girl, some where Alfred killed him.

When it comes to hetalia OCs, I try to make them as historically accurate as possible, like a person from that time. With Conner, I made him a teen, because the minimum age to fight was 18, but, a lot of kids looked forward to fighting in the war and being involved in it. Like, in a 2nd Grade math book, from the South, one of the questions was:

_"If it takes one Yankee to kill 8 Confederate Soldiers, how many Confederate Soldiers does it take to kill 10 Yankees?"_

Kids wanted to be involved in the war, and I still have conflicted feelings on that.

I gave Conner an accent, and I made him look similar, but different from Alfred.

With Conner, I believe that the two would have been deeply connected, like a twin-telepathy, almost.

I made Conner a guy because at the time, only guys could be soldiers.

Oh! And Conner's middle name is Cotton because the South was known for the fact that it was the main producer of Cotton in the US. And was claimed to be "Cotton King."

**A/N 2:**

Listen. I need to know how you felt while reading, so please review. I need to know. It boosts my morality, and it lets me know what I did good and what I did bad, so I can make it better.

**Next HeadCanon:**

_Germany's Scars_


	5. Germany's Scars, Part 1, Gerita Angst

**Chapter 5: Headcanons Twelve Through Sixteen**

_Germany's Scars_

**Headcanon 12:**

_After WW2, Germany had to get mental help because he developed PTSD at some point after the war._

**Headcanon 13:**

_After WW2, when the people of Germany were literally washing bricks and rebuilding their cities, Germany spent his days helping out, it wasn't until after this he developed PTSD._

**Headcanon 14:**

_Like America, Germany has nightmares and flashbacks about the war. This is when Italy started sleeping in bed with Germany on a regular basis._

**HeadCanon** **15:**

_Germany actually has very many scars on his body, and refuses to go shirtless or be unclothed because of it. He isn't proud of his scars, and hates looking in the mirror after he gets out of the shower or anything._

**HeadCanon 15.5:**

_Italy is the only person to have seen his scars, and Italy is also the only person that knows about them. This is because he trusts and has such a bond with Italy that he let Italy see them._

**HeadCanon 16:**

_Italy may have the killer(?) or soldier instinct that Germany has tried to barrel into him. Despite him being a complete softy, he would do anything to save Germany. Or his friends, for that matter._

_**Characters:**_

_Germany, Italy, America_

_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Hetalia._

_**A/N:**__ I apologize for the terrible accents. I partially decided to go "Fuck it." And got lazy on those. Also, warnings for violence, feels, slight OOC Italy, and post-war Germany._

* * *

Italy drove home in the Italian Style, the Drunk German in the passenger seat falling unconscious from his driving skills.

When he reached Germany's house, he locked Drunk Germany up in Germany's bedroom, barricading the door with a chair.  
He knew Sober Germany's rules, and just how serious they were. Of course, part of him wanted to throw these rules away and have fun with Drunk Germany, but Drunk Germany wasn't that kind of person, or had the same idea of fun.

Italy left the hallway, entering the kitchen, and checked the refrigerator, going over the list.

**Rules on Handling Drunk Germany**

_**1.**__ Get Drunk Germany home._

_**2.**__ Lock Drunk Germany in his room._

_**3\. **__ When the yelling dies down, or it sounds like Drunk Germany is calm, go into the room._

_**4\. **__Make sure Drunk Germany didn't break anything._

_**5\. **__Most Important: DO NOT let Drunk Germany touch you or force you into anything sexual. You may run or retaliate. Do not let him touch you._

_**6\. **__Do not put yourself in danger._

Now sitting on the couch, Feliciano had become quiet, listening, waiting for the rushed, angry German yells to die down. Such sounds had long since become a white noise to the Italian. He stared at the Snake Venom on the coffee table. He should never let Germany drink it again- bad things tended to happen.

An uncomfortable silence filled the house, and he stood. Italy hated quiet. The stillness- it reminded him of things un-pasta related and more war related. Walking down the hallway to the room, taking away the chair and unlocking the door. Opening it, slowly, and with the smallest creak, peeked into the room. Germany seemed to slumber, an arm hanging off the side of his bed. He was shirtless, pale skin glowing in the moonlight, and the Italian suddenly felt very hot and- No.

Italy slinked across the room, and laid a hand on Germany's arm, lifting it up, gently. Fingers suddenly seized his wrist, and Italy pulled back, letting out a wail.

"Germany-!"

"_Come here Italy- I won't hurt you! Just hold still~"_

Panic shot into his veins, the song-song and delusional tone scaring him.

Italy tugged, trying to free his arm, but the blond's grip only tightened. He looked up at the Italian now, and Italy's breath hitched.

Germany's blue eyes were dark, confused, yet somehow focused. But focused in a way Sober Germany would slap a soldier for. The Italian cried out, wrenching his arm free, and running out of the room. He could hear shuffling, followed by stomping, chasing after him.

_"Come here little Italy- I thought you loved me!"_

"Nonononono!" Italy cried, turning the corner, and finding himself in the kitchen. He turned around, Drunk Germany creeping towards him, smiling. He soon found himself backed up against the counter, Germany with his arms looped around his waist,trapping him.

_"You are so beautiful, little Italy. You love me, don't you?"_

Italy grew frantic- _what if Drunk Germany started testing his boundaries? _His gaze travelled up to the frying pans hanging from hooks off the ceiling. He cried out, a hand stroking his curl.

A finger tugged at his pants. Italy screamed. He reached up, grabbing a pan, and bringing it down on the German's head. Drunk Germany fell back- face forward, and out cold on the floor. Italy panted, his gaze trailing to the German, He dropped the pan, hearing it clatter against the tile floor.

Italy crouch down next the the unconscious German, surveying his body.

His throat closed up- he couldn't breathe.

**Scars.**

They were on his arms- his legs- his chest and stomach. Some were small and faded, others were long and trailing. The biggest and loudest, though, were on his torso. A long, jagged line that travelled down his spine, two deep cuts across his mid-section, and deep scarring across his chest. Italy's eyes travelled to his face.

His face looked pretty okay- but a pileup of sweat on his brow and forehead. Something looked wrong about it. . .

Like a woman's makeup coming off from moisture.

Italy felt like he would suffocate on his own air, taking his thumb, he wiped off a line of sweat, then rubbed his palm across the German's forehead.

He recoiled.

One scar, across the blond's forehead. Thin, easy to conceal with makeup.

Italy sighed, glancing at the residue on his hand, before wiping it off on his pants. "Oh, god. . . Germany. . . why didn't you tell me? These. . ." He could feel himself choking on his words. No- not now. He needed to get Garmany back to his room.

The Italian hooked his elbow's under the German's armpits, dragging him back to his room and laying him back down.

The next morning, the scars were still fresh on his mind. He went into the kitchen for breakfast, Germany already at the stove, cooking morning sausage and eggs. His back turned, all attention on the stove. Italy sat down at the table.

"Did he do anysing?"

The question came automatically, not even a 'Good morning, Italy.' Just flat and emotionless, the voice of giving out orders.

"Well, he chased me around and yelled at me in German. He pinned me down and-" At this, Germany turned, staring at him. "Did he. . . Touch you?"

"He tried to~"

Germany looked down, turning back to the stove. "Zorry."

Italy shrunk in his seat, an awkward smile appearing on his face.

"Well- on the bright side, he cornered me in the kitchen, so I was able to knock him out Hungary style, with a frying pan and all, unconscious- he. . . wasn't wearing his shirt. Or. . . his pants."

Germany flinched, whipping around and staring at Italy like a disease. The German's face grew pale, and his eyes bore into the Italian.

"Doitsu. . . What happened to you?"

"Italy," Germany started, using the tone of voice similar to sending a soldier to their last battle. Serious, regret, stern and flat. "You didn't zee anysing, understand?"

The blond had made Italy keep many secrets over the years, like where he kept the emergency keys, where Germany kept his condoms, how he cooked his wurst, how Drunk Germany acted, and various little secrets. But this- this was too serious. All those scars, they needed to be talked about. It was unavoidable.

"But Germany-"

"I said, 'you didn't zee anytsing.'"

Italy stood from his seat, the chair squeaking loudly and falling back on the floor. His hands smacked on the table, and Italy's gaze met with the larger nation.

"No, Germany, I saw _everything_! I saw them all! Those- those aren't okay! Where did you get them? Who did those to you?! How did you get them?!" The Italian yelled, making Germany look up from his sudden outburst, shocked for a moment, then his expression turning back into the default look of seriousness.

"Zat iz none of your concern."

"But-"

"I said, it iz none of your concern."

_"Germany!"_

_**"NIEN!"**_

_"Ludwig Beilschmidt!"_

Germany paused, setting down his cooking utensil and turning off the stove. "Vhy do you vant to know zo badly?"

He wanted to yell, 'Because I care about you!' But he couldn't force the words out. How would Germany react to that? Awkwardly? Disbelief? Some emotion that would ruin their relationship forever?

He wanted nothing more than to hug the German before him and never let go. To be by his side and stick with him forever. To comfort him, be there for him.

"Because. . . Because you're my friend. And- I care about my friends." It left a bitter taste in his mouth, saying that. Why couldn't he ever just tell him? Tell him how much he cared for Germany- how he wanted to be more than friends. To be something much closer than friends.

But he was so unsure. What if Germany didn't feel the same?

"You vouldn't be able to handle it."

There it was- telling him he was too weak. When would Germany understand that Northern Italy was simply lazy, not weak? Sure, he was a runner and would rather cook pasta than fight, but he had to know. He had to know who or what had done this to Germany. To his Germany.

"Doitsu, please. Just tell me."

"Vhy should I?"

"Because I have to know! Doistu, please!"

"Nein. And that is final."

"But-"

**"Go to your room!"** Germany yelled, his voice entering a lethal tone, and the Italian flinched, before scurrying down the hall and locking himself in his room.

The German sighed, the silence in the room closing in on him, but stopped by the sound of wurst boiling.

Italy sat in the corner of his room, his knees pulled up to his chest. He sat there, staring at the floorboards, sniffing and close to tears. He wanted to know. He wanted to help Germany. He wanted to comfort and be comforted.

Most nations had had their moments when they had been absolutely out of their minds. For various reasons in their history, and when you reflected everything about your country- it made it hard to think straight. It messed with your mind. If there was a revolution rising, you hard unknown voices whispering in your ears, telling you to go against what the government has taught you. Go against everything. Commit Treason. Kill yourself, be reborn as the country that rising from the ashes.

Such states of madness, Italy had witnessed.

Soviet Russia, the USSR, who had constantly loomed over the rest of Europe. (Or, when was Russia not out of his mind?), America's Civil War (and after such events, he found that even mentioning it was one of the Westerner's triggers.), his own fall of Rome, Nazi Germany, and various others.

Like America, where everyone had different opinions, the Coast States and the Inner States, Democratic or Republican. Honestly It made Italy wonder how such a person wasn't as crazy as Russia, with so many conflicts, and so much violence and gun laws.

Maybe he just ignored his sorrows in video games and McDonalds?

Maybe he should ask him sometime. . .

But Germany. . .

Nazi Germany wasn't fun either. Nazi Germany hated him, even used him as a puppet. There were many different views on that side of the blonde, ranging from- "A Monster." to "Mislead and Brainwashed."

Feliciano hated voicing his opinion about it, because- "You were his puppet, his propaganda dump!" and his opinion would be tossed out.

Italy clearly remembered the propaganda posters, one of them saying- "Germany is truly your friend!" with a smiling soldier, reaching out with his hand.

Nazi Germany always stared at him with a glare that could bring a wolf to submission. Judged him and scolded him like a student at a strict school.

Nations were affected by the feelings and thoughts of their people. And Nazi Germany. . . It hurt Italy to think of him. Hilter had brainwashed his people, restricted them and let them only hear Nazi propaganda, and not following the ideology meant you were executed.

It hurt Italy to have seen him. To see what Germany did.

It hurt to even think about it.

Germany would disappear for days, months even, invading Europe. Every time that Germany returned, and Italy returned from battles in various parts of Africa, Germany seemed different each time.

Italy honestly could not recall a time that Germany home from war, and didn't have a beer in arms-reach. Italy really got to know 'Drunk Germany.'

_"I drink to forget- I love my country, I love children- the people- but it is so hard to hate Jews- they were Germans- I want strength for me. Strength for Germany. But-" _The blond would take another gulp. The next part would be words that did not belong to Ludwig, rather, forced into his thoughts. _"The Jews aren't strong. They hinder the way of the Third Reich. They don't belong."_

Italy shivered. So many fell to their knees at the Military of Nazi Germany. Austria went first, in 1938. A year later, Poland's capital fell, and they tossed the nation between Germany and Russia.

Germany had still been himself by then, for the most part.

1940 had to be the worst year, though. Germany went off giving England hell, blockading and raiding the country. Belgium, Netherlands, The Channel Islands, Romania, Luxemburg, Hungary, and even France fell to Germany or joined the Axis that year. One by one- Dominos. By the end of the of year, Germany's house was so crowded, but the German himself rarely showed. He had felt so alone- without Germany home, and nine other countries he barely even liked staying there.

Countries that were beaten and battered- he dreaded looking at them- the fight in Hungary's eyes was deflated and tamed, France's bubbly and happy self was replaced with Depression. Belgium and Netherlands clung to eachother, Luxemburg close behind them. Romania did what he could to be alone.

And Italy was dumbfounded, numb.

He believed Germany was doing the right thing- for the both of them.

But this did not look like the results of 'the right thing'.

Even when Germany failed invading the Soviet Union that year, he didn't come home- and Italy knew he had to be enraged. They just lost a powerful ally- and losing showed one thing:

That the Nazis could be stopped.

Italy knew he should be disappointed- or upset- but he didn't know. The lost birthed a glimmer of hope in the others- Hope is good- but, not good for Germany.

What was he to do?

Italy began questioning Germany's motive. Too many people were dieing. This all seemed wrong- but Germany says this is good. He forbid Germany from arresting Jewish Refugees in Italy- but it only ended in more bloodshed at his defiance.

At the time, he had no idea what Germany was doing to them. He knew Jews were being kidnapped, taking them to jails, but no more than that.

On July 24, 1943, after the Allied landings in Sicily, the Grand Fascist Council, on a motion by Dino Grandi, voted a motion of no confidence in Mussolini. Mussolini's position had been undermined by a series of military defeats from the start of Italy's entry into the war in June 1940, including the bombing of Rome, the loss of the African colonies and the Allied invasions of Sicily and the southern Italian peninsula.

The next day, The Southern King dismissed Mussolini from office and ordered him arrested.

Such failed war efforts left Mussolini humiliated at home and abroad as a "sawdust Caesar".

And that made Italy happy. He knew Mussolini was bad.

The new government, under Marshal Pietro Badoglio, began secret negotiations with the Allied powers and made preparations for the Italian surrender to the Allies. These talks implied a commitment from Badoglio, not only to leave the Axis alliance- but also,

For Italy to declare war on Germany.

At first, it struck him to think of such things, but, by this time, the general Italian population, including the monarchy, the Northern officials, basically everyone- had grown tired of the futile war effort which had driven Italy into subordination and subjugation under Nazi Germany.

He was tired of war- and he knew his efforts would be in vain, but he had to try.

And, well, Feliciano, as a person, was tired of it.

Yet War seemed to be the only way he could save Germany- from the bloodshed, from the fighting, from _himself_. He wanted an answer, an answer that wouldn't end in loss and bloodshed- but he knew it was too late, far too late for Germany and the man he loved.

Italy went into German Territory within a few days after the war ended. He felt he left his land in good hands- free of Nazi Occupation, and starting to collect itself. It felt good, not fighting. However- roads and transportation was barely functioning, so, Italy started walking, occasionally hitchhiking and buying a bike, all the way from Rome.

But what saw when he walked into when he entered German cities- it was somber, depressed and gray.

Most of Germany's cities were reduced to rubble, the transportation system in shambles, his countryside strewn with wandering Displaced Persons. So many Germans, now homeless.

_**1945 to 1951,**__** Germany**_

White flags hung out of windows. White flags. In Germany. He passed through many villages on the way, many of them adorning the flag of surrender. The landmarks on the way to Germany's home destroyed, and causing him to be lost. He stopped, asking directions from a group of young German soldiers - in uniform but disarmed and apparently plodding along on their way home - a half-dozen young men, courteous, giving him directions as best they could, showing no trace of hatred or resentment, or of being whipped in battle. They looked like farmers' sons.

The town Germany lived in was the same city as Hitler's headquarters.

The winding, stone-paved road up the mountain side to the town filled with American military vehicles - jeeps and trucks filled with soldiers, WACS, and Army nurses.

Italy dared not ask why they were there- he was too tired, and he thought it would be better to stay away from the Americans.

He found that Hitler's quarters and the surrounding buildings had been heavily bombed - gutted, roofs fallen, in ruins. Craters from missiles dotted the nearby hillsides. The pine forest around the building stripped of limbs-trunks broken off, split, shattered.

He only grew more concerned and horrified the deeper he went into the city.

Groups of soldiers stared at him as he passed by, but made no gesture. Italy could detect neither friendship nor hostility. In every instance where he asked directions, they responded with courtesy.

Italy climbed up over rubble to a gaping doorway, still trying to find Germany's house. He was sure he was on the right street- but everything was so _unrecognizable_. A few yards up the road, he saw a German officer, (Not Ludwig- to his disappointment.) salute an American officer who passed nearby, bowing his head slightly as he did so. The American officer sauntered by, obviously taking no notice whatever, although the German held the salute until he had passed.

He would never forget their expressions.

He cried when he finally found Ludwig's personal home. It, like so many other homes- had been gutted and ripped apart. Impossible for someone to live there.

That meant that, Ludwig was lost. Ludwig had no where to return to- and he had no way to find Ludwig.

He ran from the house, emotions between frustration and agony conflicting and hurting his insides. But. . . Germany had used him. Germany had used him and his country and so many other countries. _Look, see? Look at these little countries. They are mine and didn't stand a chance. _

North Italy had been reduced to a puppet state- a display for Germany to show off his power.

Why did he care so much about the blond?

Why did he-

_**Crash!**_

A young girl's scream filled his ears, and Italy scrambled up, apologizes spilling out of his mouth, in speedy Italian.

"I'm so sorry- I did not mean to a run into you! Please forgive me-"

The girl looked at him for a moment as she got up, unsure what he was saying. "We're leaving right now sir-"

"What?" Italy finally said in German.

The girl and him stared at each other, before he bent down, helping her grab- Toys? Food? Family Photos?

What was going on? Her family moving?

"Bambina, why are you taking things out of your house?"

"My mom says we have to leave."

"Why?"

"Because the Americans are moving in."

Italy paused, before understanding, glancing at the girl's house. It was still in livable condition. He had seen this happen in other villages. When the American Army moved into an occupied village, the most desirable houses were selected and the occupants ordered out. They were permitted to take their clothing and certain household utensils and furniture - not essential furniture or beds. Where they go for food or shelter is considered none of the conquering army's concern.

"Ah. I am sorry for that- are you alright? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No, but- you sound funny when you talk. Where are you from?"

For a moment, Italy paused, not sure on how to answer that. "Far away."

"Are you with the Americans?"

"No, I'm from. . . the south."

"Why did you come here?"

"I'm looking for my friend. He's really tall, blonde, blue eyes, do you know what happened to him?"

"You mean Old Lud?"

Old Lud? Was that what the children had called Ludwig? But- that meant this girl knew where Germany was! "Yes, him! Do you know what happened to him?"

She sighed, her head shaking. "Hauptschuldige."

A Catagory 1. Major Offender. Subject to immediate arrest, death, imprisonment with or without hard labour, plus a list of lesser sanctions.

He nearly collapsed. Germany may be imprisoned. He could be working somewhere, far away.

What could they be doing to him? He found himself gripping the girl's shoulders, not noticing the scared expression on her face.

"Did they already take him away? Do you know where? Please- I need to know!"

Realizing that he was scaring her, he released her, backing away and rushing out apologizes again.

Three people came out of the house. A woman, who he assumed to be her mother, and behind her, were two young boys, no more than eight. He could not see any hostility in her eyes as he met her gaze, simply sadness and acceptance. Her boys stole glances at him, angry and a little frightened, like children who had been unfairly punished. Their arms were full of childhood belongings or light articles they were carrying out to help their mother.

Where was the father?

The mother and the girl exchanged words in rushed German- too fast for him to catch it, and the girl looked back at him.

"I don't know. Sorry."

So, Ludwig was lost. Truly lost. He walked away from the family, not looking back as they loaded their belongings and left.

Italy wondered if he would ever see the German again- he would, wouldn't he?

He turned his head, seeing posters put up by the Americans. There were pictures of bodies, nude and battered. They had captions, but he couldn't read them. He ripped it off the pole, folding it and sticking it in his pocket.

He had no idea where to go now. Back home? But what about Germany? Stay? No- that was suicide- it was dangerous to stay. What-

"Italy, dude, what are you doing here?"

Italy whipped around, seeing the American in his bomber jacket. "America? What are you doing here?"

"I asked you first." He stopped, arms-reach from the Italian. The small smirk that laced his lips made Italy uncomfortable. What was there to smirk about?

"I. . . I'm looking for Ludwig. America, you didn't-"

The smirk disappeared. "No. Ludwig is a Major Offender. But, because of his. . . condition. I'm managing him myself."

Italy found himself with a growing ball of joy in his chest. Also one of anger.

"Where is he? Is he still here? Is-"

"Dude." America grabbing his wrists. Apparently, his fingers had latched onto the American's arms. "Look. If you calm down, I'll tell you." Italy eased his fingers, relaxing. "Just- why do you want to see him? He used you, you know."

Italy grow uncomfortably silent. "I. . . I know he used me as a puppet. But. . . Nobody picked on me while he was around. And- I just want to know he's okay." Was that an excuse? Or Truth?

America answered him with silence, the superpower seeming to be mulling over his choices and actions. "You know, my soldiers are suppose to have very little interaction with the population."

"But I'm not one of your Soldiers."

"Fair point."

"But. . ." Italy paused, wondering how he should say this. "How. . . How-a are you managing him? Ludwig himself?"

"Well- he is a Major Offender. But- after some discussing. . . We decided that he would help more with the people."

"Can I come see him?"

The Westerner cringed. "Well. . . not for long. But- yeah." The American turned, walking down the street, expecting him to follow.

And he did.

The ball of joy and conflicting emotions only rose up more the farther they walked, deeper into the city. They stopped in front of one of the houses that were still standing, surrounded by debris. Men were throwing various objects out of windows, Italy saw broken vases, a teddy bear adorning the Nazi symbol, books written in German.

America picked up one of the books, flipping through the pages, then cringed, disgusted. Italy assumed it was one of the pro-nazi books. Many of which were sure to be burned or destroyed.

Dropping the book, America opened to the door, And the two stepped inside.

There he was. There was Ludwig- and all he had to do was take a few steps and hug him.

Which, he didn't- he was still, petrified.

Germany sat at the table, fully clothed. He wore a dirty, long sleeve shirt, and long pants. He could see gauze peeking out from under his shirt, and a bandage covered his forehead. Several soldiers lingered in the room, either keeping an eye on Germany, or passing from room to room, with papers and other things.

"Germany- You're okay!" Italy began rushing at him, intent on wrapping him into a hug and taking him home.

The blond's head turned to him, and he stopped in his tracks, barely out of arms-reach.

Forlorn, hopeless, guilty, empty, defeated, acceptance, there were so many words to describe the expression on Germany's face, and not one of them would fit.

It broke his heart.

Germany's once focused and fighting blue eyes were now blank, like a great atrocity had drowned his very soul and broken him down. The eyes of someone who had lost too much- No- everything. Ludwig had lost _everything_.

"Germany..."

The blond backed his chair away from the table.

"Everyone out- proceed as normal- order Recon." he heard America say, making all the soldiers leave the room, and closed the door, leaving the Italian and the German alone. America went back out the front door- something seeming to bother him.

Italy felt like he was suffocating. "Germany. . ." The words came out hoarse and rough. Italy wasn't sure what to say- Are you okay? No- that would be stupid. Germany obviously wasn't okay.

"Italy. . ."

Yep- okay, yep. There it was, his heart being ripped out of his chest, stomped on, then shoved back down his throat. He leaped, unable to stop himself, and landed on the German's lap, hearing the blond hiss. His arms wrapped around the man's neck his face burying itself in the crook of Germany's neck, feeling tears stream down his face.

"Italy. . . Please, get off."

"No... No please-" He just wanted to hold the German close and not let go of him. He wanted to take Germany back home, or just somewhere far away where they could live together forever. No war, no fighting, no pain, just the two of them.

His idea was snuffed out quickly as Germany pushed him off and made his sit down.

"You're in a lot of pain, ve?"

"Ja."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Nein."

So there he was, offering to take Germany home, offering Germany help, Germany, beaten and battered-

and he denied it?

"But Germany-"

"Italy."

His head lifted up, meeting gazes with the German. "But, why? Germany- I walked here! All the way from Rome, I walked here!"

"I am guilty. My nation, as ja whole, iz guilty. I deserve what is happening to me."

"But- forcing people out of their homes? A questionnaire? What kind-"

"My people have committed crimes against humanity, Italy. You need to go home. You do not need-"

"Yes I do!" He yelled at the German, anger lacing into his voice. "Germany, I've watched you, ever since this war started! I am not going to leave you alone now!"

Silence.

"I don't want you to be alone. I don't want to be alone. . . Fratello is still mad at me. . . My goverment is still trying to string itself back together. We're both having rough times right now, aren't we?"

A nod.

"I don't think I hate you, Germany. My people and my government, possibly. I've been tired of this war for too long, Germany. And- while I- a puppet state to Nazi Germany. . ."

"Sorry." The German said, his gaze casting down.

"The Allies and Graziani, they'ra making me all better!" A small smile flashed onto his face as he continued, before disappearing. "And Germany, right now. . I think I should to help you- not as Italy. As Feliciano. You're being restrained and punished. . . but, no one to keep you in good spirits. Or sane." He paused. "Do you get what I'm saying?"

The German stared at him, his face briefly returning to that cold, hard look he was used to, before returning to the forlorn one. "Ja. I see."

"So, can I stay with you?"

Hesitation. "Ja."

Feli smiled, about to speak again, before the door opened.

"Come on Lud. Time to help clean."

It was America.

Feliciano unlatched from the German, and the two stood by eachother. Germany began walking out, and he quickly fell into step behind him.

And so, Feliciano stayed by Ludwig's side. He trusted his country was in good hands, as long as the war was over, and the Republic gone, he was okay.

Ludwig, despite being classified as a Major Offender, his punishment was special.

Rather than imprisonment, or execution-

Germany's punishment was to witness his people. Watch as Germans poured in from various parts of Europe, know that his Brother was at the mercy of the USSR, feel as the United States pursued a vigorous program to harvest all technological and scientific know-how, as well as all patents, watch his scientists disappear to either the USSR or the USA. Know that millions of German POWs were used as forced labor, both by the Western Allies and the Soviet Union.

Feel any power he once had spiral out of control, whether physical or mental, his territory, his law, his money, everything he had falling apart-

Nazi Germany died, leaving a man and a shell of a nation.

All Ludwig could do was try to make it better.

-x-x-x-

During the first week- Ludwig had been delusional. His most terrifying terror had been at night, on a Thursday.

Feli could hear crying, sobs let out in German-

"_**Who am I?"**_

The voice would answer itself in different tones, different voices, as if there were several people there- but Feli knew there wasn't- that was Ludwig's room. Feli's ear pressed against the door.

"_**I don't know- I am guilty, I have done bad things. Yes, you have. I'm a monster. . . Who am I? I don't know. . . My identity died. My country is dead."**_

_A sniff, the creak of a bed._

"_Oh, Ludwig. . ." _He whispered, listening.

_**B A N G**_

"_**I AM NOT DEAD!"**_

Feli gasped in surprise, stepping away from the door, covering his mouth with a hand, not wanting to alert his presence.

"_**I REFUSE!" **_Someone falling down. _**"Get out- get out- GET OUT! I don't want you! You are dead! It's over for you- Over!" **_Scrambling, shuffling, another bang. _**"NO! I DID MY JOB- I FOUGHT- I DO NOT DESERVE TO DIE FOR THIS! You're a monster! We're a monster! We almost killed an entire race!"**_

_Something's wrong oh god what's happening in there I need to get in there I need to help Ludwig oh god- _Terror gripped his body- not letting him break the door down and get in.

_**"EVERYTHING WE DID WAS COMPLETELY LEGAL! I KNOW!" **__Thump. Sobbing. __**"So many innocent people- children, mothers, pregnant women, men- they were all innocent p- people-"**_

Tears blurred Feliciano's vision.

_**"Not all of them were innocent! Most of them were! What about the POWs?! They were doing their job- just like us! They were all human beings! Each and every last one of them!"**_

"_**NO THEY WEREN'T!"**_

"_**YES THEY WERE!"**_

Feli could feel a gaping hole and an unbearable pain growing in his chest- his lips pulling back, searing heat rising from his throat to his face, his breathing growing erratic, turning into hyperventilating.

He could stand this- he couldn't listen to this- Ludwig was fighting himself, Ludwig was alone, Ludwig _needed _him. _Why couldn't he move?!_

"_**We did so many bad things- we did horrible things- the world sees us as monsters- I'm a monster- Who or what even am I?"**_

_Who is saying that? What's going on in there?! I need to move! Can- can Ludwig not remember who he is?! Oh god- _Feliciano found himself hurling his body against the door, over and over, trying to break it down. _Why won't it open?! He isn't suppose to lock it!_

He heard running down the hallway- "Italy Venziano! Move away from that door!"

Fear shot into his veins, and he turned, seeing America run down the hall, and shove him out of the way. The blonde jiggled the knob, and then threw his body against the door, breaking it open, and the two rushing into the room.

As soon as Italy walked in, a piece of a chair leg flew past his head, hitting the wall. A scream attracted his attention, and he stopped, eyes locking on Germany.

Feli felt terror and guilt rise in his veins at the sight of Germany, his bandages were loose, some hanging off his body like streamers at a party, he couldn't see him clearly- he was too far in his own state of panic- everything molding together in a confusing blur.

Germany was panting, glancing about like a cornered animal, about to attack. Pale blue eyes settled on him, wide-eyed, seeming to relax for a moment.

"Germany, dude! Calm down!" America stepped in front of him, and Germany became panicked again, yelling in German, and threw the American aside, Alfred's body falling to the floor. The American started to get up, and then Germany delivered a kick to his stomach-

"Germany_ stop!_" Feliciano yelled, the blond turning and staring at him with those scared blue eyes. "Germany. . ._ Please. . . _It's me- Feliciano- please- Ludwig-"

The blond paused, his expression softening a hand reaching out to him, as if Feli was a precious artifact, well-guarded and booby-trapped.

Italy lifted his hand, reaching out. "It's-a okay. I'm here for you, Ludwig- until the very end." His hand settled on the German's shoulder, clutching him reassuringly. Italy smiled, the room falling silent and everything seeming to calm.

Germany's eyes narrowed, he glared, hate and anger flashing. Italy gasped, the German's wrapping around his neck, and his back slamming against the wall. "Ludwig- _stop-_" he croaked- wiggling, the grip tightening, his hands grabbing Ludwig's wrists. He kicked frantically, Germany holding him off the floor. Feliciano stared into Ludwig's brutal and murderous eyes. _"__**Please-**__" _Ludwig's hands only tightened, Feli was gasping now, desperate for air.

He was going to suffocate. He was going to die- right here, right now, by the hand of the very person he would die for.

Feliciano knew there was nothing worse than when the one you would take a bullet for- _was the person holding the gun to your head. _

His brother taught him that.

Suddenly, Ludwig's grip left his neck, air rushing into his lungs as he fell onto the floor. He looked up, seeing America pull Germany by his collar, pick him up, and throw Ludwig back down on the floor, face-first. Feli got up, his body shaking. "Nonono! Don't hurt him!" America ignored him, holding down the struggling and yelling German.

"Let me help him-!" Feli yelled, trying to get to them, two soldiers now bursting in. "Let me help him!"

"Get him out of here!" America ordered.

The two soldiers grabbing each of his arms, dragging him out of the room, Feli thrashed, trying to break free. "Let me get to him- please! Let me go-_** LUDWIG!" **_The soldiers ignored his protests, pushing him out and blocking his view to Ludwig, just as a punch landed on America's cheek, and the two launched into a fist-to-fist brawl. "LUDWIG!" He cried, his voice cracking, tears starting to rise. _**"LUDWIG!" **_He reached out for the German, the American's blocking him. _**"LUDWIG PLEASE!" **_Finally being shoved out of the room, the soldiers shut the door behind them, and war breaking out in the room. They locked the door, releasing the Italian.

Italy collapsed on his knees in front of the door, burning tears streaming down his cheeks now, and he raised his arms, palms resting against the wood of the door. _"Please. . . Oh god, please don't let Ludwig injure himself any more than he already is. . . __**Please**__." _He finally laid the top of his head against the door, able to hear all hell break loose inside_. "Ludwig. . ."_

-x-x-

Feli stayed by his side. He washed bricks to rebuild buildings. He comforted Ludwig when he broke. He help families with their things. He helped Ludwig keep his sanity.

Whatever Feliciano could do to help Ludwig.

Bodies were hauled in from Concentration Camps on trucks, forced to be shown to the public. Videos and images shown to crowds, posters put up showing piles of bodies, bodies, sickly and skeleton-like. . .

And all the while, being shown these images, Feli's concentration settled on Ludwig-

Without speaking, he could see the guilt and fear, the vain expression.

This was not Nazi Germany, it was _Ludwig_. He felt and expressed the same emotion the rest of the Germans did- Guilty, lost, hopeless.

Feliciano reached out, grabbing and holding the German's dirty hand.

"Ludwig. . . ?"

"_We have all been lied to- I have lied to them. I betrayed the trust of my people-"_

So somber and sullen, and Feli could only hold his hand._ "Oh Ludwig. . . I am so sorry." _He muttered out, english failing him.

At one point, when he asked America why, why do all of this, he had told him, "To shake and humiliate the Germans and prove to them beyond any possible challenge that these German crimes against humanity were committed and that the German people – and not just the Nazis and SS – bore responsibility."

-x-x-x-

"Time to go."

America stood at the door, a crowd of people slowly walking in one direction behind him. Ludwig stepped out the door, and Feliciano quickly went into step behind him, intent on not leaving the blond. America shook his head, walking down the street, waiting for Germany to follow.

Ludwig turned around, staring down at him. The fearful plea in the German's eyes, like heading toward impending doom made him hesitate. Feli had grown used to the eyes of a dead man, empty and hopeless. He grew used to the fear and loss in Ludwig's eyes, close to a scared kitten that wanted to be comforted and cared for, a terrified child that didn't understand.

To see Ludwig like this and feel there was nothing he could do to change or stop it physically hurt. "Ludwig-?"

"Feliciano. Stay." The commanding tone wavered- more of a plea than a command.

"But-" _Not here! I don't want to stay __**here**__! I want to stay with you, by your side! _

"Just please- don't fight me on this. You need to _stay_. Vere I am going. . . You do not need to see."

_But why? Why can't I stay with you?! What will happen to you if I'm not there?!  
__**"Ludwig-!" **_Feli found himself grabbing the folds of Ludwig's clothes, clutching the front of his shirt.

Now seeing scared eyes even closer, he hurt more.

"Feliciano." Hands moved, gripping around his wrists and making him let go.

"_Please. . ." _

Ludwig shook his head, and left.

And Feliciano didn't leave the house, a gaping hole of emptiness in his heart.

Ludwig returned two days later, and wouldn't speak of where he had been.

Italy dared not to ask, either.

They always slept together now.

When they were alone, he either comforted Ludwig, or sat in silence with him. When they had it, they would sit at the table and drink. (Feli had accustomed to the taste of beer, anything to get his mind off reality.)

Sometimes Germany had nightmares about being in combat. The man next to him being shot dead, or of a young child having his legs blown clean off. (Near the end of the war, Germany let children as young as ten and twelve enter.)

Feli, despite being a heavy sleeper, would hear Germany shuffling and breathing weirdly and see him sweating and with a panicked expression. And he would wake him up and counsel the German.

Feli stayed, until 1951, and the Denazification officially ended.

-x-x-x-

A knock on his door disrupted his thoughts. "Italy? Can I come in?"

* * *

**A/N:**

While I am writing these, I notice that I am using history to back up my headcanons. Now. . . History is a very important subject to me. I want to view wars from both sides. And I can rarely talk about how I feel about things, especially to my family, about historical events. I plan to go into several different things, like, Denazification in the Soviet Area- the Berlin Zoo bombings, and more on Connor and Alfred.

*HISTORICAL NOTES*

**Italian Social Republic:**

The Italian Social Republic was a puppet state of Nazi Germany during the later part of World War II (from 1943 until 1945). The second and last incarnation of the Fascist Italian state, led by Duce Benito Mussolini and his reformed Republican Fascist Party.

The RSI exercised nominal sovereignty in northern Italy, but was largely dependent on German troops to maintain control.

In July 1943, after the Allied forces had pushed Italy out of North Africa and then invaded Sicily. The Grand Fascist Council, with the support of King Victor Emmanuel III, had overthrown and arrested Mussolini.

The new government began secret peace negotiations with the Allied powers. When surrender was announced in September, Germany was prepared and quickly intervened. Germany seized control of northern Italy, freed Mussolini and brought him to the German-occupied area to establish a puppet regime.

Around 25 April 1945, Mussolini's republic came to an end. In Italy, this day is known as Liberation Day.

**The Rehabilitation and Denazification:**

As soon as 1945, the Allied forces worked heavily on removing Nazi symbolism from Germany in a process dubbed as_ "denazification."_

The Allies each took a portion of Germany, taking control of their media and press, and hunting down Nazis.

Posters and pamphlets that the Americans, using German Press, hung up, depicting what had gone on in the camps, captioning: "These atrocities: Your Guilt." or "YOU ARE GUILTY OF THIS!" (This was a program conducted to acquaint ordinary Germans with what had taken place in the concentration camps.)

He stood beside Germany when films were made and screened to the public, showing the concentration camps, such as Die Todesmühlen, released in the U.S. zone in January 1946, and a few others.

_**Next Up:**_

Russia's New Friend


	6. Russia's Friends

**A/N:** I have realized that this story is over a year old now, and that it hasn't been updated in almost a year. My bad.

**Headcanon 17:**

_Russia does not keep many animals, fearing he will hurt them._

**Headcanon 18:**

_The nations forbid themselves from getting attached to any mortal person or animal- they are immortal, most of them have been around long enough to figure out that they will outlive normal people._

**Headcanon 19: **

_Ivan's mind wanders off a lot. This makes him do a lot of thinking- leading to old memories._

**Headcanon 20:**

_When in a crowd or group, Ivan opts to studying other people and their actions. _

**Headcanon 21: **

_I imagine Ivan being at least__** a little**__ religious. The Russian Orthodox is a big part of Russian history, and it would make sense for him to be a little religious. Not extreme- just a little. -shrugs-_

_**Characters:**_

_Ivan Braginsky  
Alfred F. Jones  
Several OCs_

* * *

Ivan exited the Kremlin, readjusting his messenger bag- containing neatly filed paperwork and his laptop. He made his way for the metro, intent on getting home to his cottage in Moscow. On a work week he would be going home to a tiny and expensive one-room apartment close to the Kremlin, but he had the next few days off, so the cottage he went.

He would take the metro out, ignore the stray dogs, walk to the nearest bus stop, ignore the stray dogs, get the bus home, ignore stray dogs, get home late at night, feed his cat, drink a glass of vodka, watch the news, and go to bed.

At least that was the plan, anyway.

Ivan now walked on the sidewalk, accompanied by other people, some tourists, others were going to work or running errands, whatever, everyone was close and compact.

"_Why the hell do you like breathing down everyone's neck?"_

The crowds were bigger today, he had noticed. Ivan ducked into an alley, escaping the masses and taking a breather- he didn't like being surrounded by foreigners. "_You seem to enjoy getting in everyone's face, though."_

He hated small spaces- especially Japan's house. Everything and _everyone_ was so much smaller there. Being so tall, he was often looking over people's heads, looking down at other countries, and in turn, people stared at him. Ivan truly wished they didn't- people staring at you meant you were weird- that you were strange- you didn't belong here- you reeked of danger and hostility- you weren't right.

Weirdness singled you out.

Singling you out meant you were an outcast.

That you must be left alone.

He hated loneliness more than anything.

"_Honestly Russia- I don't much like your people- the way they look at me makes me feel like they are ready to beat me into a pulp."_

"_That is just shell, France. Once past shell, any friendship is set to be a good one." _

That's why he loved his home- he wasn't singled out, he wasn't stared at- he was among comrades in Russia.

He watched the people go by, and then rejoined the groups, heading for the Metro Station.

**-x-x-x-x-**

Ivan now stood in the middle of a train car, protectively holding his bag to his chest with one hand and gripping a hand holder with the other, listening to the occasional thumps and looking over the other occupants of the car. A stray dog laid on the floor, another sleeping on a bench, a man writing away on his notebook, a woman holding her toddler against her, the young child asleep in her arms (he had given up his seat for them), a scraggly and smelly man sleeping across three seats, hugging an instrument case tightly, a violin. Another woman, sitting beside the mother, fidgeting slightly, typing away on a laptop, and lastly, a young couple making kissy faces at each other and looking deep into the others eyes.

Ivan could take a guess at their lives-

The man with the notebook was either a student or an aspiring writer, scraping by and living in a small apartment with maybe one or two roommates, wanting to get home and drink with his comrades.

The woman was a single mother- exhausted, large bags under her eyes, handling two full time jobs, working to get a Higher Education- get a better life for them, her child just starting Basic Education- being babysat after school, clinging tightly to her arm and sleeping on her. And perhaps, the only time they spent together was on their time off- and on the rides home, like this. The mother gave her daughter a small smile, petting her as the child shifted, now using her lap as a pillow, holding her hand.

Ivan believed there was no stronger bond than the one between family, especially the one between a mother and her child- a naturally protective nature, the mother would give up everything for their child- even if it meant sacrificing herself, anything to give her child a better life than her own.

Ivan felt a pang in his heart, the woman's hard eyes catching his gaze, and offered her a small smile.

The sleeping man was homeless; evicted from his home a while ago- no one able to take him in, barely making enough to feed himself, close to losing his minimum wage job, making spare rubles by playing his delicate instrument on the streets. Perhaps he was wanting to make a career from it- join an orchestra, and live on the road with the rest of the orchestra, practicing day and night on the trains.

Maybe he had went to try-out for it, practicing the song for days and weeks on end, doing everything he could to perfect it- performing in the try outs, putting his heart and soul into his playing- and then,the judges saying he wasn't good enough. His soul and passion crushed- ready to give up- and falling into depression- lost and hopeless.

Ivan could do nothing more for him than spare him a few rubles and tell him to keep trying- to keep going.

The Laptop Lady was different- he rarely saw someone with their laptop out in public, especially in a place without WiFi- so maybe it was a document. She didn't have the face or the physique of one of his people- maybe she was an Exchange Student. Her glasses reflected the laptop's screen- Ivan could see a wall of text on a white background. She was typing in English- so she was either British or American- maybe an essay. She finally looked up from her computer, meeting his gaze and staring back at him, tilting the top part of her laptop down, unsure.

Ivan averted his gaze. American. Americans didn't like being stared at- when he last visited the US, a number of people looked at him, gaze challenging, and then going back to their own business. He glanced at her again- she had went back to typing. Definitely American.

Maybe she would translate it before she turned it in. Or perhaps she was a blogger. She appeared stressed, maybe wanting to do digital art and business, or working in languages and translating- making her way through school, with a part-time job, living with her host parents, riding home and afraid of being mugged out in the cold, dark streets of his capital. Perhaps he could offer to walk her home, as a nice gesture. If she was one of America's people, then it was his duty to make sure she got home safely.

The Nations had a mutual agreement between them- if a foreigner or tourist was in your country, and you thought they were unsafe, then you must assist them. It was common decency, and entrusted the safety of their people between the Nations.

And lastly, the Couple- they were young, perhaps childhood sweethearts- still in school, around 17 years old. Maybe the girl's parents knew the boy was a bad influence- maybe here, on the train car, was the only place where they could dote over each other in peace, without fear of being caught. Ivan cringed.

He did not like secret relationships- he believed that if a relationship has to be kept secret, one should not be in it.

He had been there- too many lies, constantly hiding things from your family and superiors, your boss looking through your messages, screaming at you for being in a disgraceful and sinful relationship, punishing you the way a parent grounds a child-

"_I didn't expect this, Russia- you are my country- my pride and Motherland- and then you pull this?" His boss held up his phone, displaying a Skype chat between him and Alfred. "With the __**American**__? You know how I feel about these kinds of things- how the __**people**__ feel- What if this got out, hm? What if the story of two forbidden lovers was released to the public- then the press shows up- the riots show- wanting you in sent to the Gulag, then we'll be on international news- imagine the headlines- Gay Russian man causes riots at the Kremlin- then they'll find out about you. Find out that you are the living embodiment of the Motherland. You and the rest of the Nations would have to go into hiding for years. Again."_

_Ivan felt guilt and fear flood into his heart, upset at the other man's words._

And then his boss would take him to church, daily, for weeks on end, the priest screaming at him and telling him to atone for his sins.

Not that it mattered. He would never be able to do enough to be forgiven of his crimes. Some had told him that you just had to ask the Lord for forgiveness and it would be received. But no- if God was a man too, why would He give forgiveness out like free candy? There had to be equal payment for his sins.

But alas, Ivan knew that there was no amount of good deeds he could do to atone for his crimes. If he had been a mortal man, he would be sent to perish in a different part of Hell. Alfred had called it "Super Hell" where true monsters like Hitler, Elizabeth Bathory, Maximilien Robespierre, Nero, Attila the Hun, Vlad Dracula, and his own Ivan the Terrible, resided._ (1)_

"_No no- that's where they hang out. They gather around a table, everything on fire-"_

He tended to speculate on what hell would be like, knowing that if his country and everything about it was destroyed- that's where he would go. To the lowest and deepest places of hell.

Maybe hell would be personally adjusted to each person? For example, maybe in his hell, he had to drink orange juice every morning after brushing his teeth- his younger sister waiting for him around every corner with a knife, that his dear Lithuania was plotting to kill him- that America had turned into a dictatorship and the King President had plans to take over- then be told that everyone had turned on him, that every country was going to attack Russia from all sides and _burn it to the ground-_

Ivan was jolted out of his thoughts as the train made a sudden stop, the woman picking up her child and throwing her bag over her shoulder, a dog getting up, and both exiting the train car. He sat down beside the American, placing his bag on his lap, and rubbed his eyes, sat back, closing them. He heard the scraping of claws against metal, two more dogs entering the car and laying on the floor.

There had been a stray dog problem in Moscow for many, many years. Finding a dog in Moscow was like finding grass in a meadow- not that hard. There were around 35,000 strays in Moscow alone, even figuring out how to use the Metro to get around.

"Hey- sorry to bug you- you're Russian, right?"

Ivan opened an eye, straightening up, the Laptop Lady looking at him now. "Da, I am."

"Can you help me out?"

Ivan nodded, and she turned her laptop towards him. "My parents want me to email them about being in Russia- and I can't get some of the translations right-"

"Okay..."

"They want me to tell them about the food and the people- it's just-" The lady took off her glasses, rubbing her eyes and putting them back on. "Sorry- I'm MaKayla by the way."

"Evan." He said, putting out his hand the American shaking it.

"Ivan?"

"No, E-vhan."

"Evan?"

"Da."

"Sorry-" She was nervous and anxious- a slight hunch in her posture and her nails bitten off.

"It's fine- what do you need help with?"

"Well- I came to Russia a few months ago and my family is demanding an email and all- I'm not sure what to tell them-"

"Why so concerned?"

"Both of my parents are writers- if I don't give them like- a full, five page essay on the past few months by tonight- they'll get mad at me and-"

Ivan put a finger to the girl's lips, shushing her, and she leaned away from him, shocked.

"You are working yourself up-" he looked at her laptop, "May I see?" She gave him the laptop, and he started reading over it.

_Dear Mom and Dad, _

_I know you've been wanting me to email you about everything- I've been busy the past few months since coming here. Small Town Iowa is very different from Moscow._

So she was American!

_My host family has been kind to me- yet strange and harsh. I abide by their rules, and I'm honestly terrified to disobey them- we're a dry family, but here- you drink a glass of liquid fire casually, among friends, but you have a few rounds on occasion and in celebration. You solve all your problems with vodka._

_They say I smile too much- Russians are quite reserved in public- which I find strange. Especially because they said, "...if you are smiling all the time- people will think you have something better than them, and will want it or take it from you."_

_But- honestly, it's just so beautiful here- how can I not smile about it? The buildings are pretty- magnificent and astounding, the light always shines just right off the onion tops, _

Ivan felt a sense of pride.

_When I told them I wanted to see the Church of the Savior on Blood and Cathedral of the Protection of the Holy, they asked me about religion. That was not a fun conversation. "If I am to live in Russia then I must transfer to the Church." The church is more than just a church to them- honestly, in pictures, it was always just a beautiful building to me._

_Guess I'm changing Religions... _

_They said there's a lot more to Russia than than Moscow and St. Petersburg._

_It's crazy to me- it's so different. Privacy isn't a thing- you live cooped together- casual conversations with strangers- people practically breathing down your neck in line, and oh my god I miss Walmart. _

"What is it with Americans and Walmart?"

MaKayla sat back, eyes still on her laptop. "It's convenient- like, instead of having to get your food, your paint, and your electronics at different stores- you just go to Walmart and get it, all in one place."

"But what about those other stores?"

"Walmart basically ran out all the small businesses. That's just how it is."

Ivan nodded, then turned back to the laptop.

_I had to run from a pack of dogs yesterday because they smelled fresh meat on me! There's a lot of them- and beggars on the streets... It makes me sad, honestly._

_School has been okay- I am getting better at Russian- it's still strange to me- especially because it has more letters, so some of them don't have an English equivalent. And it's written in cyrillic, not Latin letters._

_Asking a Russian "How are you?" Is odd- they'll give me a full report on their lives- me, a total stranger!_

_I hope you are in good health, and that you guys are doing well._

_Sincerely,  
MaKayla Smith_

Ivan gave her back the laptop. "It looks good to me."  
Makayla nodded, "Thank you."  
"How long have you lived in Russia- why come to my home?" He asked, curious.  
"I'm an exchange student from America- I've been here for two months now, what about you?"  
Ivan chuckled. "I have lived in Russia for longer than any other living Russian."  
Makayla paused- "What? You look like you're in your early twenties..."  
Ivan winked at her, the train abruptly stopping again, the couple getting off- Ivan could've sworn they were ready to have sex on the floor.

"I am getting off at the next stop- may I walk you home? It is dark out there, and you are a foreigner, is least I can do."

"What? Uh- Thanks-"

**-x-x-x-**

The train soon made another stop, and she shut her laptop and put it in her bag, Ivan hoisting his own over his shoulder, a dog leaving with him and MaKayla, two more mutts and a family of three boarding.

Ivan walked her home, having a nice chat with the American, speaking of customs, foods, funny stories, Ivan buying her a drink on the way, and helping her .

Upon arriving at her apartment, the door opened before MaKayla could knock, a man and a woman there.

"Makayla!" The woman started to speak, "There you are- we were worried that something happened- we were about to call you- _**Ivan?**_" The woman's eyes locked on him now, and MaKayla's glanced back and forth between the Russians, utterly confused. "Do you know him?"

"Yes- Erik!" A man came into view, moderate built, brown hair, brown eyes, a little taller than the woman. His right hand was missing, replaced with a hook.

Erik…. His name was familiar. He was a soldier. He definitely wasn't missing hand when they first met, he remembered that much.

Ivan, realistically, was the highest military rank in the army, The Marshal of the Russian Federation, currently inactive, but would come out of hiding in times of war, and with a different name. This was not his official rank- as it was taken by Igor Sergeyev, then moved to a different rank- but there wasn't exactly a military rank for _The Literal Embodiment of Your Homeland. _But since Igor was inactive, he might as well be. And if there was another war, his name would be Igor- besides, having a leader in several wars named Ivan Braginsky would spark many theories- shit he didn't have time for.

Select people knew of his identity as Russia, each one sworn to secrecy- punishment for revealing him was death or solitary confinement- for you and your family. The top three of the Federal Security Service, the Supreme Officers and General Officers, the President's bodyguard, the Vice President, and the President himself.

And lastly, Ivan always took time to be acquainted with two new troops of soldiers- the group that performed the best, and the group that barely made it with passing scores. Ivan would show up in a private's uniform, the group's superiors telling them he was graduating soldier of last year's class- let them think they were on equal planes with him- that he was a normal person. This was one of the few times he didn't wear his scarf- he didn't want it to get hurt.

He would congratulate each one of the Privates in the Top Class, and tell the Lower that they had to try harder- work together- that they had to keep pushing forward- that it was okay to mess up sometimes.

But if they did not exert more effort, if they did not try harder and fight harder than the better group- they might as well be cannon fodder.

And then, he would take everyone into a big room, make them strip down to their trousers and tank tops, have them spar against each other, giving the worse group tips and helping them- observing the better group, pitting them against each other, and then after a short break- everyone would spar against _**him**_.

He loved seeing the smug, confident looks on the better group's faces- thinking this would be an easy match- that was, until he had flipped them onto their stomachs and twisted their arms.

Take them down one by one, until the better group had bruises and bloody noses. He would then look at the scrawny, weaker group.

"You thought these men were the best, da? Now see- I once was like all of you. _Alone__**,**__ thin, weak and bullied __**constantly-**_ Now look at me." He would spread his arms out- letting them see his scars battles fought long ago. The soldiers would be confused as how this Private got so many scars went he had been in service for only a year- _Is war that awful?_

"You must push forward. Each person has the capability to achieve their dreams. And perhaps, one day, you may be able to take me down." He would then make them all get back into uniforms, and take ten to twenty minutes to make themselves look presentable again. Meanwhile, the three FSS agents checked and searched the room for every type of surveillance or spying they possibly could that might put Ivan in danger. Ivan himself thought this was unnecessary- but his president insisted and enforced it- his safety was a top priority.

When everyone was back in the room, everyone was patted down and searched for weapons, utterly confused as to why they were doing this- _we didn't do this last time!_

Once everyone was inside, the room was sealed off and all electronics were deactivated.

And then, Ivan would enter the room, in his best uniform, similar to the Marshal's uniform, a uniform designed specially for him. Rather than green, the whole uniform was black- his epaulettes with the Russian crest and two stars- one more star than the Marshal. His chest adorned with medals- his favorite being the _"Hero of the Russian Federation." _Others including the Order of Saint George (1st Class), Order of Saint Catherine the Great Martyr, Order of Suvorov, Zhukov, and Kutuzov. He even donned the Purple Heart and Bronze Star from America. His scarf was adjusted to show off all his decorations, his face straight and eyes investigating the soldiers. They had all been taught that more medals meant a bigger person. And until now, they did not know there was an officer with a black uniform. This was new- crazy- this was the same guy who they were told was a Private only minutes before.

So what was this man?

Ivan's gaze wandered across their faces, mostly shocked and confused. His eyes locking on a man from the weaker group, thin-faced and with a bruise on his left cheek. "You. Come here."

The others pushed him forward, and the man slowly approached him. Ivan had chosen him because he looked different. He wasn't Russian- He was probably in it for citizenship. (2)

"_Name."_

"_Private Erik Baklykov, sir." _

_Ivan, hands folded behind his back, his eyes narrowed, looking down at Erik, saluting him. _

"_At ease."_

_Erik's hands fell to his side._

"_Erik…. Why did you join the Russian Army?"_

_He hesitated. "To serve Mother Russia, sir."_

_Pause. Ivan backhanded him, glaring. "Didn't you learn not to lie to you superiors?"_

"_I'm sorry sir-"_

"_Why did you join my Army?"_

"_I- I had nothing left, sir. There- there was nothing for me back in my home- and I thought I could survive on 30,000 rubles a month- the Army was my last hope."_

"_There is always hope in the Army. Where are you from?"_

"_Ukraine, sir."_

**-x-x-x-x-**

_"Mr. Braginsky?"_

Ivan was knocked back out of his thoughts- Erik's back straighten and he brought his feet together, saluting. "Sir!"

Ivan waved his hand. "At ease, Erik. I am off-duty, and so are you."

The family let him inside, giving him a glass of vodka. "Mr. Braginsky-" Erik started, nervous.

"Please, call me Ivan."

"I- Ivan, did you walk her home?"

"Da. I thought it was nice gesture- and it is dark out- Moscow streets are dangerous at night..."

"Thank you, Ivan."

Russia nodded, tipping his head to him. "Erik… What happened to your hand?"

"Would you believe me if I said a tank ran over it?"

Ivan laughed, smiling.

They had a good chat together, and it was eight at night before Ivan made his leave, telling the family he hoped to run into them again, telling MaKayla:

"Do well in school. I know you can do it."

He exited the apartment building, heading down the street.

**-x-x-x-x-**

Ivan began the walk home, to his little cottage in the forest of Moscow, his mind wandering off and away- he was on the red square again, letting himself simply walk- letting his mind wander. He knew Boris, his Maine Coon, wouldn't be too happy with him- it was already dark, the full moon high above and illuminating the night. Ivan pulled up his left sleeve, up to his elbow, showing nine watches. Russia had nine time zones, and he had to keep track of the times. He looked at the one labeled, Москва, seeing it was already 9:45 PM.

Boris would definitely be mad.

He could imagine his cat now- probably digging around for food- scratching at the door- and eventually sitting on the couch, staring patiently at the door, his face saying- _"You fucking shit how can you do this to me I almost got into your vodka I was considering destroying all of it you fucking bitch do this to me again and ill destroy everything you love-" _

Ah yes, Boris was very… attaching... and loyal.

Ivan used to not like cats- they were not as dependable. They acted like they ruled over you- while a dog was loyal to you to the end. He used to have many puppies- he loved the companionship of a dog. Dogs were loyal. Dogs loved you back. They had morals. They were like people. Dogs were man's best friend.

But he knew keeping a pet was hazardous. To an immortal like him- a day passes in the blink of an eye. A month is a stroll down the street. A year? A few days. He, and those like him, were so used to _living_, that everyday being the same- it passed quickly. And growing attached to something only broke the heart.

But Ivan knew he would never have another dog again- he wanted one- but no, not after Brukhonenko and the Zombie Dogs- not after Laika and the others. Not after seeing every suffering stray in Moscow- and resisting the daily feeling of taking each one home and giving them a home- a life- a field to live in and run freely.

No.

Not another dog.

Never again.

Ivan continued walking, finding himself back on the Red Square. It was at least another six kilometers home, and sighed, his eyes gazing over the Kremlin, home of the President, of the Russian Government-

"_Why don't you live here? In the Kremlin? It's the home of your leaders- and your government-" _

"_No. Forgive me for interrupting you, sir, but the answer is no."_

"_Why?"_

_Ivan paused- he was supposed to give his boss true and clear answers. If Ivan were to lie, it was treason- the country of Russia lying to its own leader? What irony. Ivan looked at the walls, his eyes pulling back layers of history and blood-_

"_I have seen this palace rise and fall- over and over- I saw the Mongols bulldoze it down- It be rebuilt and remodeled more than once- I've watched the french desecrate it with their dirty feet and then blow it up- even the Polish living in it- and the Americans try with all their might to get inside and discover our secrets…. The power struggle and fight for the throne…." He looked back at his boss. "I see the ghosts of great leaders and royalty roam these halls- some young, most sad. I see every harm that has come to this building. Sir… I have seen so much inside these walls- I do not wish to to sleep in a place I have seen burned countless times. May I go home now?"_

_His boss took in a deep breath, then sighed. "I see. Go home, Russia. Take tomorrow off."_

Over Saint Basil's cathedral-

"_Look at it- Look at how beautiful it is, Muscovy."_

_They couldn't stop staring at it- there was no other building like it in all of the world. Its onion-top domes, exquisite and artistic. He loved it- a demonstration of his growing power and majesty. Russia was growing, and fast. The Country's eyes travelled to his Tsar, Ivan the Terrible. His boss was strong, powerful- and feared. _

_Muscovy couldn't get over the insane and lethal look in his eyes- it terrified him. It terrified __**everyone.**_

"_It is honestly the most beautiful thing I have ever created." Both of the men looked at the third man now, Postnik Yakovlev. "It is unique- like no other."_

"_Yes. . . " The Tsar said proudly, the hair on Muscovy's neck standing. He took a step back, fearing the worst. "And it must stay that way." His boss pulled out a knife, observing it briefly. _

_Postnik looked at the Tsar now, taking a step back as well. "What…?"_

"_Your eyes have seen every structure and inch of this building. We cannot let you give it to someone else… Especially not repeat it…. And you may never see anything so beautiful again… Isn't that right, Muscovy?"_

_He nodded hurriedly._

"_What are you-" Ivan grabbed the man's throat, slashing the knife across his eyes- _(3)

Something tugged on his pants, Ivan once again knocked from his thoughts. He looked down, a dark, matted mass pulling on his the hem of his trousers. "Hm?" Ivan lifts his leg, the mass looking up at him and barking.

It was a puppy.

"_Oh no-"_

Images flashed through his mind- smiling happy dogs, a whole pack surrounding him, tails wagging- happy to see him-

The puppy stood on its hind legs, pressing its forepaws on his pants, getting mud on them. He moved his leg again, the puppy following his every step, as if playing a game with him.

_More images. More dogs. _

_Dezik. Lisa. Died during flight._

_Bolik, Smelaya, ran away in terror of the unknown._

_Damka and Krasavka- nearly died in the capsule._

_Bars and Lisichka, rocket exploded less than 30 seconds after launch._

_**Laika.**_

The puppy was jumping on him now, excited and overjoyed that someone was paying attention to it. It barked and yipped.

"No." He turned, starting to walk away, the puppy following after him, barking, wagging its tail.

"No." Ivan said again, the puppy biting his pants and pulling on him, merely being dragged along by him. The puppy started whimpering, trying to stop him- make him pay attention.

Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.

Ivan stood there, the dog bouncing and running circles around him, his watch reading 10:00PM. Boris was probably pacing and scratching the doors by now.

It hopped up again, trying to get his attention, and Ivan felt it bite down on the corner of his messenger bag, and then pull down._ "Hey-!"_`

He shook the dog off, taking back his bag, staring at the pup. He pointed his finger at the dog accusingly, now angry with it. _"Sit."_

And to his surprise, the dog sat down. He paused. _"...Stay."_

The puppy sat there, staring at him, tongue lolled out, panting. Ivan started stepping away, and then turned tail, hurrying to his house.

**-x-x-x-x-**

He stood outside his front door, looking over his shoulder. _No dog. Good. _He unlocked the door and went inside, his cat sitting on the couch, staring at him, tail flicking- _"YoulittlefuckingshitwhywouldyoudothistomeIthoughtyoulovedme" _Boris meowed loudly, following him into the kitchen.

_"Yes- Yes- I know you're hungry." _Ivan took out a can of cat food, popping it open and into the bowl, then going to the pantry and taking out a bag of Bubliki. He went over to the fridge, his hand hovering over the bottle of water and the bottle of vodka- unsure which to take.

In the end, he grabbed both. Ivan set them on the little table next to the couch, putting his wallet and phone down as well, then shouldering off his bag and leaning in against the couch. He plopped down on the couch now, turning on the TV and rubbing his eyes. He sat back, opening the bag of Bubliki. He bit into one, half of the bread ring sticking out of his mouth, leaning back, letting himself relax-

"_Bark!"_

_What?_ Ivan shot up, _No._

"_Bark!"_

Did that puppy really- no- he didn't care. He would not care. It was not his problem. Ivan turned up the volume on the TV.

"_Bark!" _

Nope. Not his business.

"_Bark! Bark!"_

The barking turned into whimpering, and he could hear it scratching at the door. He turned up the volume more as the news came on.

_More whining._

The weather report started, _"Well it's going to be mostly clear at thirty degrees celsius, tomorrow starting at seven in the morning, and steadily rise- the high for today is thirty-eight degrees." (4)_

That dog might get dehydrated with all that thick fur... _No! Nope. Nope. Nope._

He would never have another dog. He couldn't do it- not after what happened…

_But it's been almost a hundred years, Ivan!_

No- never again- not after the Zombie Dogs, not after every dog lost to science- Ivan wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow himself to get hurt all over again.

The whimpering only got louder- his cat started meowing at the door. More scratching.

_"If you have any pets- keep them inside, way too hot out there-"_

_**"THAT'S IT!"**_

Ivan angrily shut off the tv, the wooden floors of his home thumping with each footstep as he approached the door. Boris went behind him, his hand resting on the door knob, faint whining outside.

_"Don't turn the knob."_ He muttered to himself, his grip tightening on it. _"You are going to regret it." _His knuckles turned white. _"Don't do it…" _And yet, he turned the knob.

And there, sat the puppy on his welcome mat, staring up at him and panting.

He betted himself- _"If you can calmly walk inside, and sit down at my feet... You may stay."_

He knew it wouldn't do it. Puppies had so much boundless energy that it wouldn't sit still, nevertheless calmly walk inside. And yet, the puppy did. It walked inside, and sat down in front of Ivan.

_"Of course." _He said with a bitter sigh, looking down at the pup.

Ivan closes the door, picking it up by its scruff, causing it to yelp and thrashing its legs. Meeting its gaze, Ivan squinted, looking it over. _"You, are very dirty."_ The puppy continued to yip. _"First of all, this is my house. And I have rules." _He began walking to the bathroom. _"To start off with, you are going to take a bath."_ Boris followed after him, slinking inside as Ivan closed the bathroom door. He set the dog in the bathtub and turned on the water, getting a rag and a cup. He took off his scarf and folded it carefully- putting it where it couldn't get wet.

_"Rule One- I am your Master. Or, to put it in your terms, I am your Alpha. "_ The puppy yelped at the cold water, trying to jump out of the tub. _"You do as I command and-" _He stopped for a moment, recalling the rules he had for the Baltics- no. This was a dog. Dogs must be treated differently._ "If I need to lay my hand on you, whether it is to bathe you, punish you, or pet you, you do not complain." _He started scrubbing the puppy with the rag, the water turning a brownish black.

Ivan could not retain the smile that came onto his face as the black mass of fur turned into a light puppy. He grinned widely as the pooch was slowly unmasked.

She was a female Caucasian Shepherd.

Or, better known as, a Russian Bear Dog.

They were huge, fluffy, loyal to their masters- and aggressive. And more importantly, they were bred to kill bears.

He could already imagine it now- America being tackled by a dog the same size as him- a massive hound sitting by his side at World Meetings-

More dirt gave way, revealing brown fur with lighter brown splotches, two white socks on her forelegs and muzzle, the tips of her fluffy tail marked with white, and she seemed to be a few weeks old, maybe 5 weeks, roughly the size of a cat. She would hit her growth spurts soon.

Ivan cleared his throat and composed himself, the puppy staring at him. _"Two," _he started,_ "I will train you. You will be loyal to me and me alone."_

Ivan turned on the shower head, and she yelped as water sprayed her, barked at him, and bit his arm. She met his gaze and let go, staring at him. He dumped a cup of the cold water on her head. Ivan grinned- she was learning her place- good.

_"Three. You are a Russian Bear Dog. As such, I will not accept any softness or timidity. Especially not in public." _He rinsed her off and took her out of the tub, grabbing an old towel. _"Now- I will take you to the groomers as soon as you are house trained."_

Ivan started to dry her off. _"As for your name..."_ He paused.

This was it- if he gave her a name there would be no going back.

For example, farmers do not name pigs or chickens. You will grow attached to it if you name it.

_"Kira."_

His fate, now sealed.

He stood up as Kira shook off excess water, wrapping his scarf back around his neck, and opened the door, the puppy about to run out. "Nyet." He put his foot in front of her, blocking her path. _"You do not leave the room until I tell you to." _

Kira looked up at him._ "Sit." _he instructed, forcing her to sit._ "Sit." _he said again, gesturing to her. _"When you sit, I may let you leave." _He opened the door wide, and looked at her, walking out of the room, and then clapped his hands,_ "Stay."_ The puppy sat still, and he clapped a few more times, trying to teach her. "_Come_!" She came running to him, barreling down the hallway and barking at him. Ivan smiled and went and sat back down on the couch. Kira followed after him, and then leaped onto the couch and onto his lap. Ivan shakes his head, lifting her up and putting her back on the floor. He moves his coffee table to the side, and sits on the floor, Kira getting into his lap.

Kira licks his face, and then sniffs the scarf, causing Ivan to freeze. She looks at him, and barks, tail wagging.

Ivan's face saddened as she fawned and flopped down in his lap, falling asleep.

He bent his head back, leaning against the couch. He closed his eyes, lightly petting her back- _"Tomorrow, I will take you to the vet. You will get vaccinated. Then I will buy you food, and brushes, and shampoo- collars..." _He paused, finding himself thinking about his future with Kira. The average dog lived up to 15 years. 15 years, to him, felt like a few months or a few years.

And he would whatever he could to prolong it. He could see it now- strolling down the street with her, using her for hunting. As a Caucasian Shepherd, she would at least grow to the size of a small horse. Ivan knew she would be a challenge to raise- her breed was naturally aggressive, and if not trained, would grow into a dangerous and vicious dog. However, if trained right, would be a loyal and obedient companion.

Ivan smiled.

_**BWAHAHAHAHA  
**_What the hell did that idiot want? Ivan's ring tone for the American was the most annoying thing possible- his ignorant, loud laugh. He reached for his phone, Kira yelping and biting his hand.  
_"OW! Kira!"_ He yelled, grabbing Kira as she tumbled onto the floor. He answered it angrily, trying to regain his calmness.  
"Rossiya Federatsiya zdes'?" He answered, in Russian.

"_Rus- Ivan."_

Ivan knew that tone. It was hard to distinguish it- but he knew it.

This tone was close to- _I've fucked up and I'm really upset right now can you please come over and hug me please I don't want anyone else to know I'm upset_

This one however, was- _I've fucked up and I started cleaning again and I found things and I'm really upset _

"Alfred. I told you, if you're going to clean up that room, have someone there with you."

_"Yeah yeah, just look, can you come over?" _

**Translation**_**: **__I'm really fucking upset can you please get your ass over here_

"You want me to drop everything I'm doing, pack a two-night bag, book a flight to your house, cross about seven time zones, and come over at six in the morning, get a rental car- which house are you at right now?"

"_The one in Pennsylvania."  
_

**Translation:** _You should know which house I am in by you shithead-_

"Yes- get a rental car, drive to your house, all because you need some moral support?"

_"Duh." _**Yes.**

"I'll be right over." He hung up the phone, and picked Kira up, staring at the smaller dog. "I suppose we are going on roadtrip, yes?"

He picked up his phone again.

**_To: American Idiot_**

_Do you have room for young dog?  
_

_yea, why? :\_

_Just checking. :)_

Ivan opened up a flights app, booking a flight for two days from now, in first class, two seats. His goddamn dog was going to have a window seat for god's sake. He hated that animals rode in the cargo- It was awful down there. "So Kira- tomorrow- I buy you things you need, and take you to vet. Then we fly to Alfred's." The puppy yipped, her tail wagging and tongue lolling out.

"I sense we will make good friends, da?"

His phone beeped one last time.

**_From: American Idiot_**

_WHAT ARE YOU BRINGING TO MY HOUSE YOU FUCKING PSYCHO _

_Nothing :)_

* * *

**A/N: **

Bubliki ( I think? ) is a Russian Cracker made in Lithuania that is shaped in rings. They taste like Animal Crackers- I've had them and they're good.

(1) You see, I was going through Vine and there was this one by Dope Island about "Super Hell" I was initially trying to make this story lighter and happier. And those people are all bad people-

(2) It honestly, from what I've researched, doesn't take a lot to join the Russian Army. You have to be of a certain age, have a clean criminal record, and a few other things. Joining the Russian Army also gives you citizenship.

(3) It is said that Ivan the Terrible actually gouged out the eyes of the main architect for St. Basil's, so that he would never see anything as beautiful ever again. There is some debate on this- because the Architect did move on to other projects, but hey, who knows?

30 Degrees C is around 80 degrees F, and 37C is close to 100F.


End file.
